


30 Game Changing Moments Between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Frottage, Genderbending, M/M, Parent!lock, Ridiculousness, Rimming, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 28,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are moments in every relationship when one person could zig but instead chooses to zag... moments when a set of events are either set into motion or abandoned forever. Most people never see, never recognize these moments, but neither John Watson nor Sherlock Holmes is most people. Theirs... theirs have been cataloged and chronicled for your reading pleasure!</p><p>*some tags apply to future chapters that are not yet posted*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of 30 fics/ficlets I'm writing as part of the 30 Day OTP Challenge.

It all started innocently enough, it really did. When one is chasing a criminal down the streets of London, one doesn’t think about each and every move he makes. So, when a certain Army doctor isn’t running quite quickly enough for a certain consulting detective, one doesn’t give much thought at all to the resultant lacing of thin, pristine, alabaster fingers with shorter, rougher, sun-bronzed ones. Rather, one doesn’t give it much thought until after the deed is done. Brief thought immediately after, and deeper, more contemplative thought much, much later.

John lay in his bed staring up at his ceiling. It was a ridiculous thing to even consider, but what if…


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Necessity or not, it counts!

The red flash of a baseball cap washing away in a sea of the faceless masses, that was the last thing John saw before he was knocked off his feet. And for one terrifying moment, he was nearly swept away with the tide. Yes, it was only a moment before the hand of God— _What? It could have been._ –reached down, plucked him from the ground, and helped him to his feet. But, the hand of God, it was not. Rather, it was the hand of Sherlock. _Ah… close enough… but curious_. And it was curious. John wasn’t sure why, not yet, but it was curious. Wasn’t it?

Lights flashed bright against the obsidian sky and the dee-dee-dedeleedle of carnival music flooded his ears. He couldn’t hear himself think, let alone do any deducing. Surely that was still Sherlock’s job anyway, on his CV between chasing criminals and acting as the hand of God.

And, aye, there was the rub. Sherlock didn’t act as the hand of God when he was chasing a criminal. That was the curiosity… not that Sherlock would help John to his feet. Of course not. It was something else.

For starters, Sherlock noticed something inconsequential that happened to someone who wasn’t… well… Sherlock. That alone was peculiar, but there was more. Sherlock _was_ chasing a criminal. Not only that, he was _in front of John_ whilst chasing said criminal. So… the man who held nothing in higher regard than catching the baddie just to prove— _again_ –how brilliant he was, stopped to check on John, noticed his absence, and backtracked to help? John made a mental note to check the cupboards for cocoons… and to stop watching so many old sci-fi flicks. Never mind that though, the question stood: why?

But there’s so little time to think when you’re being led— _more like dragged_ –through a crowd, presumably toward a still-sprinting pickpocket who very severely underestimated his most recent victim. The annals of history would one day list man’s poorest decisions, and that list would read something like this: Charles IV allowing Napoleon’s troops into Spain, Hitler trying to invade Russia, and guy in red baseball cap lifting the wallet of Sherlock Holmes.

When involved in a foot chase, one expects to run. But when catching up to a criminal, one does not expect him to instead be a Ferris wheel. Though, a Ferris wheel was precisely why they stopped.

“Sherlock?” John looked up. “What are we doing?”

“Vantage point,” Sherlock grunted in reply.

“You lost him, didn’t you? When you stopped to help me?”

“Perhaps. Not important. _Seeing_ is important.” Sherlock flashed a badge to the ride operator, a badge which identified him as Gregory Lestrade, and he scrambled into the cab.

John followed, very tight lips holding back a very persistent ‘what the fuck are you doing with that?’

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sherlock snapped. “He was more irritating than usual on our last case, and this is simply how I retaliate. It should really come as no surprise.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” came the reply just as the contraption began to move.

With a swing-sway-shriek, it lifted both detective and doctor high above bustling crowd. And with a thud, it stopped. A few cars past the tippity-top and with an utterly unfettered view, one very astute blogger eyed one garishly red cap. “There!” John pointed.

And when they looked to the operator, he was already looking up. Sherlock gave the signal to bring them down, but wheel didn’t budge.

“Down!” Sherlock shouted. “Quickly!”

But the response was, “I cannae!”

“You must!” Sherlock squirmed, as if he might raise the lap bar and attempt to scale the structure. “It’s imperative.”

“It’s stuck… it wonnae budge!”

Ten minutes later, still stuck in the air, ‘imperative’ was gone like the man in the cap, but ‘stuck’ still remained and had been joined by ‘fucking freezing.’ And the ground crew below seemed to be making less than impressive progress on the control panel.

“It’s a l-l-lost c-cause.” John’s teeth chattered. “W-w-we’ll c-call and c-cancel your c-c-cards t-tomorrow.”

“Cards? What cards?” Sherlock’s baritone remained even and unaffected.

“F-from your w-wallet.”

“There were no cards. He only made off with about seven quid and a fake ID.”

“W-what? Then w-w-w-why are w-we up here?”

“It was the principle of the matter, John.” Sherlock unbuttoned his coat and apologetically wrapped one side of it around his shivering flat mate.

Freezing fingers were fisted between shirt and coat, arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock’s torso. A thoughtful hand rubbed John’s shoulder and pulled him closer. And atop the Ferris wheel, they huddled— _more like cuddled_ –for warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why the ride operator was Scottish... he just wanted to be, okay?


	3. Watching a Movie

Trying to get Sherlock Holmes to watch a sci-fi movie marathon was like trying to teach a lab rat deductive reasoning, and John would know because Sherlock had tried… in earnest… for several weeks. They never found poor Algernon after his unfortunate though understandable escape. But, unlike Sherlock, John succeeded, which either made him more persistent than Sherlock or made Sherlock less stubborn than a lab rat. Either way, John: 1, Sherlock: 0.

Sherlock stood as the credits rolled. “It wasn’t quite as bad as I imagined. Hardly accurate by any stretch of the imagination, but I suppose it was passable given the information available to the layman in 1968.”

John shook his head and stretched. “So, you’re done already? That was the first film. Hardly a marathon.”

“Just a trip to the loo, if you must know. I’ll be back.”

“Ooh. Could you put the kettle on while you’re up?”

“I’m sorry, John. I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Sherlock smirked and sauntered out of the parlour.

John shuddered a shudder of sheer horror. _My god, I really do live with HAL._ He lumbered to the kitchen with tea on the brain, hoping the interlude between films would last just long enough, and it did. Two cups in hand, he limped back to the parlour to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa and watching words scroll across the screen, _‘A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…’_

Sherlock glanced up, his expression unfamiliar. “Your leg. Why’re you limping?”

 _Concern. That was new._ “I sat on it wrong. It’s nothing, just asleep.”

“Surely you realize a limb cannot possibly fall asl—”

“Yes. Stop. Just a saying. Watch the film.”

Sherlock crossed his arms in a huff and pouted like the overgrown toddler he often was. “Spoil sport.”

With the tea safely on the table, John sat and tried to rub some of the feeling back into his now prickling lower limb.

“You’re doing it wrong.” Sherlock stared out of the corner of his eye. “Give me your leg.”

“Coming from you, I’m not sure I’d ever get it back.” But actions speak louder than words, and what John did was drape his leg across Sherlock’s thighs.

One doesn’t always notice his flat mate’s hands until said hands are expertly massaging his calf. That’s not to say John hadn’t noticed before, because he had. When one’s flat mate’s hands are so prominent, so exquisite, so very clearly talented an instrument— _also **with** instruments, both musical and scientific_ –they’re nearly impossible to ignore. However, John had never been quite as acutely aware or appreciative of them as he suddenly was, and previous observations of Sherlock’s hands had never before led so directly to the engorging of tissue or tenting of trousers. And when the man who noticed everything pretended not to notice _this_ , kindness enabled cowardice, and John Watson was thankful.

If one were to look deeper, observe more keenly, one might also realize that Sherlock, long after proper blood flow had been restored to John’s leg, kept massaging.  If one looked a bit deeper still, it would also become obvious that John let him. And then the question is begged: how many weeks would their foreplay last?

***

John awoke to sunlight filtering into the parlour and a nest of dark messy curls nestled against his ribs. He could have lived in that moment forever— _whatever that said about him_ –but it was gone 9am and there was work to be done. “Sherlock,” John rasped, ruffling the ringlets. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock shot up, eyes snapping open. “IT’S A TRAP!”

“No.” John chuckled. “It’s only a film.”


	4. On a Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They sort of are...

“C’mon.” John rapped lightly on Sherlock’s open bedroom door. “Angelo’s.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I feel like going out, and I’d like some company.”

Sherlock sighed. “Didn’t we just eat?”

“Yes, _I_ ate this afternoon. And now, like a normal person, I’d like to eat again. _You_ ate several days ago, and unlike a normal person, you’ve once again forgotten how often you ought to repeat the process. So, that’s settled. Happy day. Let’s go.”

“Oh, fine! Just let me get my coat and we’ll go.”

And he did, and they did.

***

What does one do when his ‘usual’ table is occupied? That was the question upon entering Angelo’s. A sane person chooses another table. Sherlock Holmes, however, gets dragged away by his flat mate whilst trying to shoo away the patrons occupying it.

“They’re not houseflies, Sherlock. You can’t wave them away with your hand simply because you’ve decided a table is yours. Other people do use it when we aren’t here.”

“Well, they shouldn’t,” he snarled, still glaring at the young couple.

“It’s fine. We’ll sit somewhere different for a change. It might be nice. Could even be exciting.”

Sometimes a dubious scowl is the best response an Army doctor will receive and far better than he would dare expect. And at times like those, he often chooses to interpret it instead as enthusiasm and agreement, because it may be as close as he’ll ever get. So, when he chooses a table in the far back corner and is met with his flat mate silently taking a seat, he considers it a win of epic proportions and briefly considers a victory lap around the restaurant, complete with a cheering crowd and accolades in abundance. And it all happens in his mind in the three seconds he allows himself to consider it and then abandons it forever, because no one else would understand. Because two grown men choosing a table and sitting isn’t an accomplishment, unless one of those men is Sherlock Holmes and the table at which they’re sitting is ‘not their usual table.’ But no one knows Sherlock quite like John, and John… well… John cherishes that the most.

When a young woman approached the table— _unfamiliar, early twenties, uncertain of herself, gleam of terror in her eyes… obviously new here_ –John smiled warmly. When he realized he’d just deduced their waitress, his smile briefly slipped into ‘my god, what have you done to me?’ and then into a smirk because he already knew the answer.

After orders were taken— _though nervously and likely not quite right_ –the same waitress soon returned with a bottle of wine and a small candle. “A-Angelo sent these. Something about not being at your normal table and maybe a special occasion so I should ‘make it extra romantic.’”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to it. “Excellent. Thank you.”

“Oh?” Across the table was a face, bathed in confusion and candlelight. _Beautiful._

“I knew what you were going to say.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

John dropped his voice a full octave. “Though it’s clear you won’t even last the week, you don’t yet know that, so I’ll play along. The first thing you should to know is that he isn’t my date. The second thing you should know is that Angelo refuses to believe the first thing. The third thing you should know is that there are strangers sitting at my usual table, and I demand they be—”

“Enough.” Sherlock glowered. “I don’t talk like that.”

“You kind of do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do... a bit.”

A long silence stretched between them before Sherlock spoke again. “Why didn’t you correct her? Sympathy?”

“Nope.”

“Free wine?”

“Nope again.”

Sherlock’s brow creased with thought. “Then why?”

“Because… I mean… what if I am?”

“What if you are _what?_ ”

“Your date. I mean, in theory.” John bit back a chuckle when Sherlock choked on his drink. “If a date is, as I’ve myself explained, what happens when two people who like each other go out for the purposes of having fun, then how is this anything but a date?”

“John.” Sherlock shifted in his seat, long, elegant fingers fidgeting nervously with fork and napkin. “Are you suggesting you want to date me?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh! Right! Because—”

“I’m suggesting that I already am dating you and have been for quite some time. And I think, perhaps, it’s time we actually talked about it.”

“I don’t—”

“What confuses you more, Sherlock… the fact you think I consider myself straight? Or the fact that someone would choose you as a date, regardless of sexual orientation?”

“To say I _think_ you consider yourself straight would suggest I was incorrect. Do you not?”

“What you’ve failed to notice is that I’ve stopped considering myself anything. Because saying or _insisting_ I’m straight doesn’t quite change this… this… domestic partnership we’ve developed over the last… jeezus… let’s be honest… since the day we met. So, yeah, I guess I don’t.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the table, and he took another sip of his drink. “So, what exactly do we do now?”

John spotted their waitress over Sherlock’s shoulder as she approached with their food. “Now we eat dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, they _definitely_ are!


	5. Kissing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's POV for something different

Some silences were comfortable. Others were suffocating and deafening. The silence throughout the flat at 221 Baker Street was the latter rather than the former, and its inhabitants were indeed suffering from it, drowning in it. John barely made eye contact when he wandered out of his room to forage for tea or food, and Sherlock had withdrawn into his Mind Palace. He huddled in the deep, dark corner where he stored his ‘what do you mean we’ve already been dating for quite some time?’ data.

Most of his time was spent with an expensive and well-tuned instrument tucked beneath his chin, bow held tenuously off the strings, and completely frozen with fear. Because of all the things that Holmeses do, dating is the thing they don’t. Not that he wasn’t interested in John—quite the opposite –but it was all a passing flight of fancy when there was no implied reciprocation. And now that there was reciprocation, there was no communication, not even of the implied variety—whatever that meant. Silence. Had John changed his mind?

An abandoned violin lay propped against a deserted chair, timid footfalls ascending the stairs toward the room of a hibernating Army doctor. The knock came soft but audible, and the response was alarmingly fast. But no time to run or retreat was fortunate, it was time to act and face possible rejection, reproach.

“Do you trust me?” It was the first time Sherlock had spoken in days.

“Never. And always.”

 _Good enough._ “Consider this an experiment, John.” Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply.

Softer, more elegant lips leaned down and pressed against thinner, more rigid ones. The nip of teeth followed by the heat of a tongue, a tongue seeking refuge in the mouth of another. Access granted! Exploration was thorough, by tongues in mouths, fingers in hair, and eventually by hands on bodies.

When lips parted, bodies peeled away from one another, John spoke. “My god…”

 _What are you doing? What were you thinking? What the bloody hell is wrong with you, you daft sod?_ The words flashed through Sherlock’s mind like terror flashed across his face. It was done and there was no turning back, but John… oh, John… what terrible things he was about to say.

And what he said was, “It’s about bloody time.” And what he did was thread fingers into curls and tug Sherlock down into another messy kiss.

No matter if it was a first kiss, a fiftieth, or maybe even a five-millionth, it was the first time kissing had ever felt right, certainly for Sherlock and hopefully for John. It was a miniscule moment of grand proportions, a blip in time that dreamed of being more and somehow managed to succeed.

Sometimes time stops and grows as tall as a monument and marks the instant everything changes, and everything… everything _had_ changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might get smut tomorrow! ;)


	6. Wearing Each Others' Clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They do... eventually.

A darkened room, illuminated only by the sparks where skin met skin, where doctor met detective. The silence was overwhelmed by a white noise symphony, a harmony of quiet moans against the soft melody of panting. Fevered and intimate, it was everything a first time should be… a first time in more ways than one.

Sherlock loomed over John, breathless and gasping for air. He pressed frantic kisses to lips and jaw, neck and chest, as if John might, at any second, disappear. An impossible apparition, an object so desperately coveted finally within his grasp. And everything was almost too much. Skin, prick, and senses… too hot, too slick, and far too over-stimulated. For a man who already overanalyzes, a perfectionist who always has to be the smartest person in the room, sex is practically a nightmare.

The slip-slide of cock against cock. Nerve endings strung like high tension wires, set aflame by the slightest touch. Whimpers drawn out by the pain of the pleasure.

When a brilliant detective feels ignorant and common, he often stops acting like himself. And when a doctor, equally brilliant but in a very different way, notices, he takes charge… and the detective lets him.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” John started.

“But I do… don’t you?”

“Oh, god, yes…” If Sherlock could have seen John in the dark, he’d have seen the lust-addled flutter of eyelashes, blue eyes momentarily slipping back behind heavy lids. “But… just… we don’t have to. This isn’t what it’s about for me.”

“Am… am I…” When a genius discovers self-doubt, all hope is nearly lost. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Fuck.” A single syllable whispered under John’s breath. “No. God, Sherlock… no. I just don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you.”

“I want to. I just… haven’t.”

“Ever? With anyone?”

The silent shake of a head had never been so loud.

“We’ll both try something new then, yeah?”

“How?” The sound was little more than a breath, so small and so questioning. “You’ve done this hundreds of times.”

“Ah.” John pulled Sherlock into a hard, needy kiss and whispered against his mouth. “But I’ve never been fucked.”

The strange twist in Sherlock’s stomach was new. Aural stimuli had never before seen so erotic. His cock had never before twitched and ached in response to much of anything before, let alone something as simplistic as sound waves, as simple as a voice. But what comes next? “What do you want—”

When the detective flounders, the captain commands. “Lie on your back, soldier!” John growl-purred through gritted teeth.

And Sherlock listened. Without complaint or mild protest, he simply did.

Muscular thighs straddled narrow hips. Two slick fingers pistoned in and out of the good doctor, and those fingers were his own. With each roll of his hips came a satisfying slap-thump of his cock against Sherlock’s abs, the lightest brush of his hand against Sherlock’s prick.

Sherlock merely watched and wanted, allowed his hands to explore but only above John’s waist. When the tweaking of a nipple elicited a filthy moan, the Great Deducer knew he’d done well. And the pre-cum leaking from John’s cock and pooling warm on Sherlock’s stomach made him salivate like Pavlov’s dog. The desire to taste as strong as the compulsion to breathe.

When John finally spoke, it was a single word. “Ready?”

And that word shook Sherlock to his very core. “Are you?”

“Let’s find out.” John smirked and sank back.

And everything was new. Tight muscles stretched around hard cock, granting access with slow deliberation. A hot vice clamped tight and enveloped him, millimeter by millimeter. And the eternity it took before John sat flush was really only thirteen seconds. Of that he was sure, because when breathing was impossible, counting was the next best thing. And together they rocked. One set of hips repeatedly snapped up to meet the other, frenzied and wanton.

Sherlock was good with body language, and that hadn’t changed. The minute shift of the angle of his hips resulted in subtle—or not so subtle –reactions. Good behaviour was encouraged with lofty rewards. And novice or expert, it just felt right.

But when John started to groan a little too loudly and clench around him just a little too tightly, Sherlock knew what was about to happen. Moreover, he couldn’t allow it to happen… not yet, and not like that. “John—” His voice cracked. “—don’t. Please.”

With those words, John stopped. He stopped moving, sure. And he stopping moaning, naturally. But breathing? Possibly even thinking? He seemed to have stopped those, too. “You alright?” The words were pensive.

The heat of blush crept into Sherlock’s cheeks at the sudden realization that John was afraid, terrified something was truly wrong. And then it seemed ridiculous… mortifying. A big, genius brain struggles to find the words to tell his lover, ‘I simply wanted to ask that you instead cum in my mouth.’ Perhaps it struggles even more than an average, boring one, because it’s never before had to formulate or express such ideas. And what it comes up with is this: “I’m fine. Don’t stop.”

But the doctor would have none of it. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

And the detective, who barely knew what sheepish meant, looked sheepish. Because talking about sex, about desires… it reduced him to an overgrown schoolboy. “I just… I don’t want you to…”

“Cum?”

“Yes.” Sherlock whimpered, his hips bucking up hard into his rider.

“Ever?” John ground a small circle with his pelvis.

“Nnnng… not like this.”

“How?” He started to rock again. “When?”’

Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper. “I want to taste you.”

And John groaned in response, a licentious, desirous groan.

“I want you to…”

“Say it,” John breathed into Sherlock’s ear. “Tell me.”

And Sherlock said it the only way he knew how, the only way his mind—suddenly so average –knew how to say it. “I want you to cum in my mouth.”

The look on John’s face proved he wasn’t prepared, wasn’t prepared to hear the thing he’d begged to hear. The whimper on his lips screamed, ‘I didn’t think that through.’ And then he admitted what he clearly fought against admitting. “I’m not sure I’ll last that long… not like this.”

So, flip they must, and flip they did. It was only seconds before fingers replaced prick, and Sherlock’s mouth was the one place it longed to be. His newer, simpler brain receded, and he was a genius once again. Whereas most people need practice to perfect the art of pleasure, Sherlock needed only the most basic of data. The angle of his hips which elicited the most salacious responses could easily be replicated with a quirk and twist of his digits.

“Fuuuuuuuuuu…” John whined a whine that was almost a sob. “What… about… you?”

Sherlock pulled his mouth off with a pop, his lips twitching into a devious grin. “I highly doubt this’ll take long.”

“What are you implyyyyyyy-hnn- nng—jesus god fuck!”

“You were saying?” Sherlock asked before once again repurposing his mouth.

His perfect doctor keened above him, the sound of enraptured approval driving him on. Then came the most beautiful words he’d ever heard, panted out in ragged breaths.

“You… sure? ‘Cause… I’m… gonna… cum.”

He hummed his reply against an already pulsing cock and savoured the heat of John’s release as it struck his palate… once, twice, a third time. A moan that sounded remarkably like his name filled the air, and he swallowed hard. Swollen, abused lips pressed against John’s in a bruising kiss, and he again swapped fingers for prick, sinking in to his hilt in one fluid motion.

With each stroke came a grunt, and Sherlock’s teeth sank deeper into the flesh above John’s scar. Primal he sounded, and primal he was. A heat twisted in Sherlock’s stomach and wormed into the base of his spine, the base of his cock. Weak arms wobbled and threatened to give out. Sharp thrusts quickly turned erratic, the satisfying slap of groin against arse growing louder and louder in Sherlock’s head.

Motor skills dissolved as the detective was undone, a near-incoherent string of expletives punctuated with John’s name were the only form of communication he retained. And he knew what was happening, knew in a technical sense. He’d experienced John’s release, read studies and articles and even read a bit of erotica… once. But he’d never allowed his body to go through it, never saw the point in touching himself or anyone else. Never before, never until now. And to say he was frightened would be putting it mildly, because losing control is the one thing a Holmes never voluntarily does.

As Sherlock’s vision blurred and pleasure shot white-hot through his body, it continued to do what it was made to do while his brain refused to cooperate. An aborted sob of a scream bubbled up and died in this throat. Intense heat surged up and out, the gratifying frenzy of an orgasm which was decades overdue. And the good doctor, the one who, if Sherlock had been able to look at him, looked quite concerned…  he grinned-winced when it was over. He looked… sore… but also accomplished—maybe even proud –and he should have. He’d given Sherlock something Sherlock had never even given himself, and it was good—oh, it _was_ good.

When the detective collapsed next to his doctor, both thoroughly debauched, the doctor spoke. The thoughts came in broken bursts of breathless speech. “That… that thing… you did… it… it was good.”

And the detective panted next to him. “I… I think… perhaps… I love you.”

“After the orgasm I just gave you—” A more composed John chuckled. “—you damn well better.”

But brilliant eyes searched a knowing face for more, and he found no relief until his unasked question was answered.

“I love you, too. I guess I thought you knew.”

Sherlock wrapped John in long limbs and pulled him close. “My John,” he whispered and nodded off to sleep.

The rudest awakening is the one that comes 4:32am, rousing one from the slumber of love’s afterglow. When the caller is a very frustrated Detective Inspector, it only grows worse. And when The Boffin and his Confirmed Bachelor’s presence is immediately required, they amble out of bed and dress in the dark. And when one arrives in a violet shirt, with arms too long and buttons strained, and the other squirms uncomfortably crimson cotton a bit too snug at the crotch, no one says anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... I took the long way around. Sorry. :/


	7. Cosplaying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself... It would be perfect!

“I love the smell of Storm Trooper in the morning.” John snickered as he stepped onto the crowded floor of the con.

“Odd. I don’t find it quite so olfactorily pleasing.”

“It’s a— ya know what? Never mind.”

“Another pop culture reference I’m sure. Was it as ridiculous as this costume?”

John looked him up and down. “Not quite.”

A group of teenagers pointed and stared, and John was certain it was Sherlock who had drawn their attention. John could have been nearly anyone in black boots, black trousers, a navy V-neck t-shirt, and black leather jacket; it was only the sonic screwdriver in his pocket that gave him away. But Sherlock—oh, Sherlock –he wasn’t even sure how he’d coaxed him into the get-up. Raven curls were teased into a fluffy mess and topped with a Poet Fedora, while a plaid waistcoat covered mostly by a mid-length burgundy velvet jacket, tweed pants, and a very long, very striped scarf clad the lanky detectives form.

“I look absurd,” Sherlock huffed.

John pursed his lips into a faux-pout. “I think you look adorable.”

Daggers shot from Sherlock’s eyes. “The suspect was apprehended hours ago. Why are we still here?”

“Because I like it, and you like me.” John pulled the toy from his pocket and aimed it at his grumpy partner, a blue light shining as it emitted a high-pitched, whiny buzz. “Play along, and I may give you a good sonic’ing later.”

With a smirk, the fourth Doctor pulled the ninth into a kiss, cameras flashed from all sides, and an entire fandom imploded in upon itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can someone make fanart of this? I don't generally ask for such things, but I need Nine!John and Four!Sherlock! I need it like I need air!
> 
> Now with fanart: http://megg33k.tumblr.com/post/36010438487/sonicscrewdriving-heres-a-little-something-for
> 
> Thank you, sonicscrewdriving!!! ♥♥♥


	8. Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... sorta...

When John asked Sherlock to go shopping with him, it seemed like a simple enough request. Normal couples shopped together, and while John loved the abnormality of his and Sherlock’s ‘normal,’ he sometimes dreamed of seeing how the other half lived. So when Sherlock refused, as Sherlock often did, John went alone. But John— _because John was the smart one_ –had a plan.

As per usual, Sherlock didn’t notice when John walked back through the door, and John refused to draw attention to himself. Instead, he waited. Because it _would_ be worth the wait.

By 8pm, Sherlock sat cross-legged and cross-armed in his chair, an obvious scowl gracing his marble-chiseled face. “I don’t like it, John.”

 _Ah, yes… totally worth the wait._ “Don’t like what, love?”

“They’re staring at me, and I don’t like it.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John smirked, because John lied.

“The kittens, John! Those bloody kittens!”

John cocked his head to the side and pointed at his jumper. “These kittens?” He donned an oatmeal jumper with blue, mauve, grey, and taupe argyle, but the colours weren't the issue. Over the argyle were the charcoal faces of more than half a dozen kittens with big googly eyes… eyes which penetrated through to one’s soul. They were the bluest of blue and the most horrific thing John had ever seen. “Do they bother you?”

Sherlock glared, careful not to look directly at the yarn constructed felines. “Of course they bother me.”

“Perhaps you should accompany me next time I shop then?”

“You’re insufferable sometimes,” Sherlock growled as he tugged the jumper over John’s head with little resistance. “I’m burning this when I’m done with you.”

“I rather thought it would make a lovely Secret Santa gift for Mycroft.”

Sherlock grinned a contented grin. “And such is why I suffer you.”

John pulled Sherlock into a gentle kiss. “And why do _I_ suffer _you?_ ”

“A question I ask myself every day, followed by the fear that you may one day stop.”

“Silly, Sherlock. One does not simply stop loving a Holmes.”

When Sherlock wrapped John in a thankful, needy embrace, their lips met again. And against the kiss, Sherlock whispered, “I’d be lost without my blogger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was shopping involved... even if we didn't watch!
> 
> This chapter was inspired by this post: http://megg33k.tumblr.com/post/35442471644/kylasedai-sketchlock-heli0centric


	9. Hanging Out With Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... sorta... for a minute...

“But I don’t want to,” Sherlock whined from the other side of the bathroom door.

John paced the hallway, intermittently looking at his watch. “This isn’t up for debate, Sherlock. Making us late may well annoy me, but I’m not changing my mind. So, come on.”

“Fine!” Sherlock exited, dressed as dapper as he’d ever been and scowling harder than John had ever before seen.

“Your face may stick like that if you aren’t careful.”

“And you only love me if I’m beautiful?”

“Well, let’s face it—” John rocked his shoulder into Sherlock’s bicep. “—your looks are all you’ve got going for you some days.”

“Mm. I was under the impression that you rather enjoyed that thing I do with my tongue as well.”

“Stop.” John shuddered. “I can almost hear you offering to show me if we don’t go, and it might just work. So, just stop.”

“I’ll show you when we get home if you promise we can leave early.”

“Deal!” John agreed, already wishing ‘when we get home’ was the long way of saying ‘now.’

As they clambered into the cab, John gave the driver a slip with an address on it. The ride was mostly silent. With fingers laced, John laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you really not know what this is about?”

“I assure you, I’ve no idea. You know how my brother can be.”

“That’s the thing—” John sat up taller. “—this isn’t like him. He abducts people in black sedans or is found cross-legged in your favourite arm chair when you return home. He’s a Bond villain, not a party host. Why would he send out formal invitations to come to his flat?”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to John. “Penthouse. As much as I would enjoy watching his head explode at the sound of you calling his home a flat, even I draw the line somewhere.”

John chuckled. “Okay. Penthouse.” And the car had rolled to a stop in front of it by the time he spoke his last syllable.

As they stepped inside Mycroft’s flat… er… penthouse, John handed him a bottle of wine— _a bottle he bought himself which had sense remained in his possession and unopened, because who the fuck would accept an opened bottle of wine from Sherlock Holmes at a dinner party he was being forced to attend?_

“Lovely place you have here,” John touted.

“Isn’t it just?” Sherlock plastered his face with the most insincere smile he could muster. “Enjoy the wine.”

Mycroft looked the bottle over cautiously.

“Oh, Mycroft… it’s fine. It’s been at my side since the moment I bought it. It’s clearly not been tampered with in anyway.”

“Mm. Clearly.” Sherlock raised a brow and sidestepped his brother.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re never going to drink that, are you?”

Mycroft set the bottle on the nearest table and whispered, “Never.”

John followed Mycroft into the dining area and was slightly surprised to see a beautifully appointed table crowded with nearly everyone he knew: Sherlock— _of course_ –Greg Lestrade, ‘You lower the IQ of the whole street’ Anderson— _what? no one really knows his first name_ —Sally Donovan, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, Anthea— _oh, who cares? it’s not like it’s her real name anyway_ –and a few nameless suits who looked like they could introduce themselves but may have to kill you afterward. Sherlock was already seated. Lestrade was to his right and an empty chair to his left, which John took.

“Why are all these people here?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged and waved the question away with a flip of his hand. His gaze was fixed on Mycroft, who approached the head of the table. But he sat, and nothing was said.

Later, in the middle of the salad course and just after wine glasses were all duly topped off, Mycroft stood. It was a leisurely action, but it still brought the whole of the table to a deafening silence. Everyone was well-rapt by the time he finally spoke. “I have an announcement to make.”

“Oh, dear,” Sherlock sighed under his breath and placed his napkin on the table.

“As some of you may or may not know, I’ve been involved in a rather serious relationship for quite some time now and—”

“Is this to do with cake?” Sherlock interrupted, laughing at himself and receiving only an elbow to the ribs from John.

Mycroft continued without so much as breaking stride. “—and we’ve decided to make it a bit more official. Sometime in the coming weeks, date still to be announced, my partner and I will be wed, and we wanted you, our friends and family, to be the first to know.”

“Who would ever want to marry a Holmes? And why?” Sherlock asked Lestrade quietly, but not so quietly that John couldn’t hear. Perhaps he was hoping for something other than a bruised ribcage in response, but got even less of a reaction.

 John’s heart sank at the words. ‘Who would ever want to marry a Holmes? And why?’ What kind of question was that? What about the Holmeses supposedly made them so undesirable? Both were attractive, intelligent, wildly impressive men. Of course there would be people who wanted to spend their lives with them. Was that really so hard to believe? Was that how Sherlock thought John felt about him? It was a sad prospect.

In the ten seconds it took for an entire lifetime’s worth of thoughts to bounce around in John’s head, he hadn’t heard a single word spoken since the question Sherlock posed to Greg. But when one is pulled from said thoughts by the loud, audible, and in-unison gasp of some half dozen people sitting around him at a table, one tends to take notice of what might have elicited such a universal reaction. And the thing that elicited the reaction was the now-standing Greg Lestrade, whose fingers were laced with Mycroft’s at the head of the table, and the gentle, loving kiss he placed on the cheek of the whole of the British government.

“Wait!” Sherlock rose quickly to his feet. “You’re serious? Mycroft ‘caring is not an advantage’ Holmes is getting… married?” He said it like the word soured his tongue.

“Disadvantageous or not, some things are simply unavoidable.” Mycroft’s eyes lolled briefly toward John and then back to Sherlock. “Surely you understand more than you let on. We do so hope you and your… mm… _John_ will be in attendance. Don’t we, Gregory?”

“I’m sure Mummy will be ecstatic, one of her sons managing to do something normal for a change.” Sherlock turned with conviction and headed toward the front door.

“I’m so sorry.” John may not have been the smartest man in the room—hell, most of the women were smarter than him too –but he was the person who best understood Sherlock. For all that the Holmes brothers knew of people, John knew that and more of Sherlock’s heart. And he followed only a few steps behind his wayward love.

It was a chilly night in early spring, and John shivered as he stood waiting silently for their cab next to his brooding partner. He waited for the cab, waited for Sherlock to speak, waited for the sake of waiting. And when he was done waiting, he spoke. “You planning on telling me what the hell that was all about?”

“What?”

“Oh, you know exactly what, Sherlock. That little display in there.”

“Lestrade? Lestrade?!” Sherlock ranted and paced like he hadn’t even heard John’s reply. “Is my brother really so blind? Marriage is clearly not the detective inspector’s forte.”

 “And some would say relationships aren’t mine.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered that.” Sherlock didn’t miss a step.

“Excuse me?” John’s eyes narrowed, a burning ember of rage sparking in his chest. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Oh, come on. You _know_ me. I have a spreadsheet at home detailing every relationship you’ve ever had, the duration of each, and how and why they each ended.”

“That’s crazy, Sherlock. _I_ don’t even know why they all ended.”

“Yes. It’s interesting. There’s a column dedicated to that very data.”

“So, you—” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Wait… Every relationship I’ve had just since you’ve known me, right?”

“Certainly, if that’s what you’d prefer to think I meant.”

“You know what? It doesn’t even matter.” The cab pulled up and they both climbed inside. John curtly gave their address and continued, obviously undeterred by the addition of the cabbie to their conversation. “What are we doing? If you’ve got it all figured out, then what are we doing here?”

“I just wanted to see what it was like to do something normal—”

“Is that what this is to you?”

“John, no. I ju—”

“It that what _I_ am to you?”

“No, of course—”

“Some experiment?”

“Stop yelling at me, John.” Sherlock’s voice cracked. “Just let me finish. Please?”

“Fine.” John sat back, arms crossed, the heat of anger and hurt burning a blush onto his cheeks. “What then?”

When Sherlock continued, his voice was small. “I do genuinely care about you, love you even… to the best of my ability. And I’m just enjoying it and waiting…”

“Waiting for what?”

“Waiting for you to get bored, John! Because that’s what you always do!” Sometimes passion and anger are very similar, and they sound exactly the same on the voice of Sherlock Holmes.

And John laughed. He didn’t mean to laugh, nor did he want to laugh. But laugh was what he did. “Me? Get bored of you?” The silence from Sherlock urged him to continue. “For a genius, sometimes you’re an idiot. Tell me something about your spreadsheet, Sherlock. Is there a column for how many times I’ve been told off for choosing you over whatever woman I was dating? Is there a column for how often I get accused of being a better boyfriend to you than my girlfriend? How about a column for the number of times I’ve accidentally called someone else by your name or closed my eyes and pretended the woman I was with was you? Do you have any of those columns? Do you?”

“No,” Sherlock replied in a whisper.

“So, if you’re just in this to see what it’s like to be normal and waiting for me to get bored so you can be done, you might have a hell of a wait on your hands. If you don’t want to do this—”

“No. Stop. I do. I know I often say normal is boring, but in this case, I really do want to be normal… with you.”

“Sherlock…” John took a deep breath. He stroked a sharp cheekbone and gazed into crystalline eyes. “We’re never going to be normal. The best we can hope to be is us.”

And once the cab was stopped and the fare was paid, the pair clambered up the steps toward their flat. Clothing was shed all the way to their bedroom and what they did once they were there was comforting and loving. It celebrated them just being whatever they were, and they did it because they wanted to and needed to. They did it because they truly loved each other… but also because they did indeed leave the party early and Sherlock still knew how to do that thing with this tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If something can be EXTRA not beta'd, that's what this is. It's 6am, and I'm dying from tired. I'll look at it when I wake up. I'm so sorry if I fucked up something important. :(


	10. With Animal Ears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, c'mon... you'd *expect* him to be a cat...

“I’m not leaving the flat like this,” Sherlock insisted from behind his bedroom door.

“Oh, yes you are. If I have to, so do you.”

“Fine, then don’t.”

John chuckled. “Nice try, Sherlock, but this is what Mycroft wants.”

“And?”

“And you’re going to play nice for once. You nearly ruined his engagement party, and I’ll not have you ruining his stag do as well.”

If a door could be slammed opened, that’s precisely what Sherlock did. His arms were crossed, and he refused to even look at John. “There. Are you happy?”

John’s eyes widened as they traveled the length of Sherlock’s body and back. Once he coaxed his jaw back into place, he replied, “Does Blue Bell glow in the dark?”

Black, patent leather stilettos were secured with an ankle strap, black stockings stretched tight on thin, toned legs, which appeared to be shaven beneath the hosiery. Black, satin knickers hugged an impossible-to-hide bulge and an impossibly pert arse. The bow of a matching corset hung just above a white wisp of fluff, positioned in the exact spot where John wished he was. The dark strip of a bow tie broke up the expanse of lily white between neck and shoulders, and two perky bunny ears sat nestled in the mop of obsidian curls atop the detective’s head.

After briefly considering launching himself cock-first at his breathtaking beauty of a partner, John instead adjusted himself. “You look… amazing.”

When Sherlock finally glanced in John’s direction, his double-take of a response was satisfying.  “Perhaps my brother has a few good ideas after all.”

A long, elegant finger trailed down John’s bare chest and abdomen, his collar and bow tie suddenly tightening at his throat. His pulse beat hard in his wrists against shirt cuffs which stood unattached to any shirt.

When that same wandering finger slipped beneath the band of tight, black hot pants and came back wet, Sherlock sucked it into his mouth. “Tsk… tsk… tsk… You’re making a mess of yourself already.”

John shuddered. His back pressed against the cool of the wall, and already petite nipples further hardened, as did other, less petite bits of his anatomy. “W-what’re you d-doing? We h-have to guuuuuhhhhhhh…”

Sherlock dropped to one knee and licked a wide stripe up the front of John’s pants, suckling at the moist spot near the tip of his cock. “What was that?”

“Nnnng… we… don’t… have… time,” John panted, knowing full well he sounded less than sincere.

“Don’t we?”

With black fabric tugged down and tucked beneath bollocks, John’s oh-we-sure-as-hell-better-have-time prick slipped into the center of the perfect heart formed by an eager detective’s lips. The wiggle of artificial ears might have been hilarious under other circumstances, but as Sherlock’s pretty mouth sucked and licked at John’s ever hardening cock, hilarity was the last thing on the good doctor’s mind.

Once known as John ‘three continents’ Watson, the lust-addled man trembling in his hallway was quickly devolving into John ‘oh dear  god yes fuck jesus god fuck yes god yes’ Watson, and he came screaming and cursing down the throat of a very enthusiastic, very Sherlock-shaped bunny.

Sherlock licked John clean— _savouring every fucking drop_ –replaced the fabric over a now well-spent cock, wiped the corner of his mouth, and stood. “I think we should keep the outfit.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” John breathed. “Your tur—”

“Not yet.” Sherlock captured John’s hand and pressed the palm flat against his own very hard, very ready prick.

John cleared his throat. _What exactly is a refractory period again?_ he wondered, but instead he asked, “Why?”

“I want you to think of me just like this, engorged and wanting.” Sherlock rubbed John’s hand up and down the slick of the satin. “I want you to think about what I’m going to do to you when we get home, all the ways I might like to fuck you, dressed just like this.” He took another step forward, the whole of his body now pressed tightly against John’s. “And every time someone at this party looks at you or speaks to you, I want you to think about me… just like this, so close you can feel my breath on your face, so hard I could cum with little more than a sideways glance, so desperate to be inside you that my entire body aches. I want you to remember that, and then I want you to get me out of that party as quickly as your somewhat compromised brain can formulate a plausible, viable way out.” John swallowed hard and nodded before Sherlock continued, “Unless you’d prefer I had you right there in front of everyone, and don’t think for a split second that I wouldn’t.”

It was several seconds before John took a breath and stretched to kiss his fierce and feral lover, only to clip the man’s lips before he pulled away. There would be only two hours between when they left for the party and when they returned home. And when they reached the parlour of 221B, Sherlock was true to his word and did to John what we all know bunnies do best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know what happened here. This was supposed to be fluff, not porn. Ah, fuck it, I suppose!
> 
> Also, begging again for art... because... well... you must want to see this at least half as badly as I do.
> 
> Now with fanart: http://megg33k.tumblr.com/post/45241120709/jujuproblems-for-chapter-10-of-30-game-changing
> 
> Thank you, jujuproblems!!! ♥♥♥


	11. Wearing Kigurumis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to do this... until...
> 
> I dedicate this chapter to Jackie aka pkmndaisuki!  
> Also to Aeron aka yetanotherartblogon!

“The wonderful thing about Sherlock  
Is Sherlock’s a wonderful thing!  
His top is made out of brilliance  
His bottom is made out of hnnnng!  
He’s bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy  
Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum!  
But the most wonderful thing about Sherlock is  
Mine’s the only one   
Sherlock’s a lovely fella  
Sometimes he’s even sweet  
Everyone else should be jealous  
That's why I repeat... and repeat   
  
The wonderful thing about Sherlock  
Is Sherlock’s marvelous chap!  
He’s loaded with vim and vigor  
I love when he squirms in my lap!  
He’s jumpy, bumpy, clumpy, humpy  
Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum!  
But the most wonderful thing about Sherlock is  
Mine’s the only one  
Miiiiiine’s the only... oof!  
Ouch!”

An un-amused orange and black striped… paw… slugged the red and yellow arm of an incredibly amused  Pooh… er… John Watson. “Stop that! It’s not funny!”

“It is.” John giggled.

“I assure you, it’s not.”

“It is a bit.” The good doctor nearly tipped over in a fit of laughter. “You just don’t realize it because you can’t see yourself.”

“You look ridiculous too, you know?”

“Yes, yes.” John cleared his throat and composed himself. “I’m sure I do. It was utterly worth it for the sight of you dressed as Tigger, though.”

“I don’t see why this was necessary,” Sherlock huffed and crossed his Tiggerly arms low on his yellow, Tiggerly tummy, his lips pursed into a perfect, petulant pout.

“Because our clothes were soaked, and we’d have caught our death if we hadn’t gotten out of them and into something dry.”

Sherlock scowled at the all-too-entertained Met, all snickering and snapping pictures with their mobiles. “You can’t tell me there was nothing else we could have worn.”

“No.” John grinned and stroked Sherlock’s angry, Tiggerly face. “But you put these people through hell when you know they need you too much to tell you to piss off. I think maybe they’ve earned this.”

“I’ll show them.” Sherlock tugged John into a kiss far too passionate for their circumstances, but the onlookers just kept watching and compiling photographic evidence.

When they finally broke for air, John looked around as a pale pink blush fell across his cheeks. “Oh, bother!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the inspiration, Jackie! I couldn't have come up with this without your amazing art!  
> Go find it here: http://pkmndaisuki.tumblr.com/post/29025069617/more-poohlock-as-some-have-dubbed-it-finally
> 
> And thanks for the brainstorming, Aeron! You're my new muse, and I adore you! <3


	12. Making Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... this went longer than expected...

When one grumpy detective is abducted alongside his lover in the early morning hours by his older, more than mildly overbearing brother, he pouts. And when the detective pouts, the blogger scrambles. Because putting a smile on the face of an agitated genius is one of life’s little pleasures when you’re an invalided Army doctor turned consulting detective’s better half—and John _was_ the better half, at least at times like these.

“I can’t wait to see you in a tux,” John purred near Sherlock’s ear. The bored, crossways glance didn’t deter him. “I could get hard for you just thinking about it.” A raised eyebrow was a slightly better response, but still not good enough. “Seeing you suited up in all those layers, thinking of nothing but peeling them back off of you, biting at the nape of your neck as I enter your—”

“Enough.” Sherlock squirmed and cleared his throat loudly. “I’ll stop pouting. Just don’t make me think of sex whilst in the backseat of my brother’s car.”

“Interesting.”

“It is? What is?”

“Ooh. Does the brilliant Detective Holmes not like it when the shoe’s on the other foot?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, c’mon. You do that all the time. Remark ‘interesting’ in passing and expect no one around you to question what it means.”

“When I say it, there’s actually something interesting. It’s hardly my fault if everyone around me is too stupid to see it.”

“Always a flatterer.” John rolled his eyes.

“I’m… sorry.”

John’s eyes popped wide as saucers. “An apology? You must really need to know what I thought was so interesting.”

Sherlock nodded a scheming, manipulative nod, complete with puppy dog eyes. “I would like to know.” And then the unthinkable happened. Sherlock, totally unsolicited and under the watchful gaze of big brother— _no, literally_ –snuggled.

And, dear god, it was too fucking early on a Saturday morning for puppy dog eyes. John was helpless to resist. “I merely found it interesting that ‘thinking of sex in the backseat of your brother’s car’ is where Sherlock Holmes draws the line.”

“To be honest, John, it’s not the thinking that puts me off. It’s the fact I know you wouldn’t be willing to go any further than taunting under these circumstances, and I’m not fond of the discomfort of an erection to which I can’t properly attend.”

“So, you just don’t want to be horny unless I’m prepared to follow through?”

“If you insist on putting it in the most basic of terms, yes.”

“Duly noted, Mr. Holmes.” John quirked an eyebrow. “I’ll remember that.”

And John did remember… mostly. He remembered right up until he didn’t, the moment he made a grave error in judgment. Why, oh, why did he decide he and Sherlock should change in the same room?

To see the obstinate, eccentric, ‘I do what I want’ man he loved— _still_ loves, will _always_ love –cinched tight in an exquisite tuxedo at the behest of said man’s older brother, who he still half-loathes even on a good day, was something to behold. Worse yet, he offered to help Sherlock with his side adjustors, which already put John’s fingertips under the waistband of well-fitted, luxurious trousers… knuckles against creamy, pale, and too-hot-for-its-own-good skin.

And, in the worst decision of John’s life to date—at least the worst one his poor, all-my-blood-has-drained-to-my-dick brain could remember –he succumbed to the urge to lean into Sherlock, allowing the wall to support them both. But how could he not? He was defenseless against those pheromones, the ones he’d ignored for far too long, the ones that made him instantly hard and had his cock twitching in anticipation, the ones Sherlock exuded every fucking hour of every goddamn day. He leaned in and breathed them in, and he was already half gone—too far gone –by the time he’d realized his mistake.

Greedy hands pawed at a waistcoat that obscured too much, dampened the sensation of touch—a problem which clearly plagued them both. Perfectly tailored trousers that once draped consummately over flat, erection-less groins were now pulled tight with the added bulk of engorged tissue and tenting around it. The only skin available for touching was below the wrists and above the neck, and what a fucking waste that was. But John made the best of it—as did Sherlock. Never before had the pulling of hair, the sinking of teeth into the sensitive crook of a neck, the licking and nibbling at an exposed earlobe been so near the height of eroticism.

Hot breath blanketed every micrometer—not that there were many, because there weren’t –of exposed flesh. Teeth clicked as they nipped at swollen lips—already abused by the not-so-gentle prickling as they dragged across ‘I didn’t have time to shave this morning’ stubble –tongues invading and exploring eager mouths whose landscape was already well-known but was still worth a second… fiftieth… one-millionth look around.

And when interactions became so overheated, exorbitantly expensive fabric on the brink of being tattered and ripped away from flesh, John composed himself and took a step back. It was the hardest, heaviest, most laboured step in the history of man—the kind of step that made Neil Armstrong look like a prat. The most difficult, yet simultaneously most satisfying, part of it being the pained hiss of disappointment which escaped a very frustrated detective’s deeply bowed and alarmingly victimized lips.

John’s voice came—when it finally found him –as a deep rumble of a command. “Leave the tux on... for when we get back to the flat.”

Sherlock nodded headily, and they took a moment to adjust themselves before paying and making their way to the car. Of course they received a strange look from the girl behind the till when they insisted they’d wear their purchases home, but she hadn’t dared to question them, and all the better for it—John might just have explained in no uncertain terms.

The leather squeaked under their weight as they slid back into the back seat, legs touching as they sat a bit closer than they had on the way there. Fingernails raked lightly across suited thighs, the smell of anticipation and musk and outright sex flooding the sedan. And what’s the point of having a big brother if he doesn’t choose to further frustrate his already frustrated younger sibling?

“I’ve just got to make one quick stop on the way back to your flat.” Mycroft’s smirk was audible. “You boys don’t mind, right?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to it. “No, ‘course not. Take your time.”

And the worked up detective’s wayward glance confirmed he didn’t yet understand. But when the car rolled to a stop and Mycroft stepped out, clarity surely dawned. In the space of a breath, John was in his lap, hips rolling in the exact way the car’s tires were not. He ground down hard to overcome the muted sensitivity through layers of thick, quality fabrics, rutting groin against groin and cock against cock.

“What the hell—”

“Only if I’m prepared to follow through,” John breathed, reminding Sherlock of the promise he absolutely remembered.

“You can’t possibly be suggesting we have sex right here, right now.”

“Can’t I?” John’s tongue curled around the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “I thought I might be.”

“We… can’t,” Sherlock panted out between needy kisses.

“Fine.” John grinned and didn’t relent for a single second. “I’ll wait till we’re home to take you apart, but I’ll be damned if Mycroft isn’t going to regret leaving us out here to suffer.”

“Don’t say his name, not now, not like this.” Sherlock’s face crumpled with disgust. “Or… do. Maybe it would lessen my… excitement.”

“Shut up, you beautiful, insolent creature. _Just. shut. up._ ”

And shut up he did, because it wasn’t a request. Also because John threw his head back to expose a throat his irresistible love could never resist. Pain seared where insistent teeth marked him, the heat of an impatient tongue both scorching and soothing in their wake. Long, skilled fingers gripped John’s arse, pressing and prodding at the cloth pulled taught across the spot he wanted them to be. Not quite enough friction, at front or at back, was maddening, but the lust-drunk look on his heavy-lidded lover’s face was worth it.

“Can you feel how desperately I want for you? How much I _need_ you?”

Sherlock nodded languidly in response, a low hum passing for a more proper ‘yes.’

“I want to feel you inside of me, filling me up, making me cry out your name. I want you to feel my pulse around your cock—” The guttural moan that forced its way from John’s throat was unintentional. “Oh, god… your cock.” He reached behind himself and between Sherlock’s thighs to palm base and bollocks through infuriating fabric. “I want to hear my name on your lips—your _perfect_ fucking lips –when you cum. I need to feel the throb of that magnificent cock, the heat of your release. Oh, god… I need you to fuck me like I’ve never needed anything more in my life.” His head lolled further back in the agony-ecstasy of the moment.

“John, we should—”

“I want you to strip me down and ravage me, anyway you like, anywhere you fancy. I want you to have me—to _take_ me –in every way your big, brilliant brain can conjure. I want to cum for you until it hurts, fall asleep drained, and cum for you again when I wake up.”

“John, I can’t—”

“Fuck me hard. Fuck me raw. Fuck me until I beg you to stop and then fuck me a little longer.”

Sherlock stuttered out an insincere plea, a false appeal John couldn’t even process as words. “Stop… please… I don’t think… I mean… I’m—”

His head snapped to Sherlock’s ear. “I want you to cum inside me, pull out, and replace your cock with your tongue. I want to feel you lapping up your own release and then kissing me so hard I nearly choke, the taste of me briefly overwhelming the taste of you. I want to—”

“Oh, god, John… nnnnnnnng… ffffuuuuuu—” With eyes rolled back and mouth agape, Sherlock quaked beneath the good doctor, jerking, twitching, and clawing scratch marks—later to be described as very red and very angry –down John’s back, under the shirt he’d somehow managed to un-tuck.

And that’s when John stopped, because he knew that look, recognized that motion. “Did you just—”

“Shut up.”

A giggle bubbled up in his throat. “Did you… cum? Here? Clothed? In a tuxedo?” Nervous laughter aimed to hide the intense desire such circumstances served to create within the yet unsated medic. Because fuck if the idea of that wasn’t the hottest thought he’d ever managed to think.

But Sherlock’s face flushed pink with embarrassment. Sherlock could read people, but John could read Sherlock. And he clearly didn’t understand—yet again. He thought John was mocking him, ridiculing him, taking the piss. His vision was too clouded with mortification to see John was actually desperate for him, more wanton than ever.

“No, no, no…” John stroked his cheek, traced the hard edge of a well-defined cheekbone with a trembling hand. “You’re getting it all wrong.” He pressed a hard, reassuring kiss to the confused detective’s lips and unabashedly moaned into this mouth.  “This is absolutely the sexiest thing that has ever happened to me,” he whispered just millimeters from the lips from which he couldn’t drag himself away.

The front door of the car clicked open and Mycroft’s voice filtered into sex-laden air. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

John threw himself off of Sherlock, trying hard not to salivate at the damp spot he could help but caress near the zip of Sherlock’s trousers. “Not at all. Just long enough,” he choked out.

The expression on Mycroft’s face was priceless when he caught sight of his thoroughly debauched baby brother. “Yes. Clearly.” He cleared his throat. “Onward to Baker Street… so you two can get on with your day.”

“Oh, surely you must have a few more stops.” John chuckled. “Could you possibly point us toward a good dry cleaner?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched into a grin before they met John’s once again. Post-orgasm Sherlock had come to be one of John’ favourite sights. His body was relaxed and his kisses sweeter. And he wouldn’t dare turn down one of those kisses, even if it was given mostly to make Mycroft squirm. Oh, who am I kidding? Especially if it was to intended to make Mycroft squirm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if that was making out, but it wasn't quite sex. Fuck... It was mostly John talking like a whore. But whatever. I love it when John talks like a whore. I hope you do too!


	13. Eating Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eventually... sort of.

Arms crossed over his chest and back turned to the world, Sherlock sulked. _What kind of an overgrown man-child has to have his tonsils removed in his thirties?_ He’d checked himself out of the hospital early. _Why should I stay when the only doctor I trust resides in my own flat?_ By the time he’d scribbled it in his very angriest… _voice?_... the staff seemed to be done with him anyway.

But now that he was home, help was the last thing he wanted. He wasn’t John’s responsibility. He was supposed to be his partner, not his patient. No one takes care of Sherlock Holmes. No one.

That wasn’t quite true though, was it? Not if he was being honest with himself. What had John done for so long if not taking care of him?

A soft sigh. “You need to eat something, Sherlock.”

“Come to bed, love.” The tug of hand on wrist. “Humans need rest… even you.”

“It’s freezing. Don’t go running off without your coat and scarf.” Winter garments thrust at him. “You’ll catch your death.”

“Be careful with those chemicals; there’s precious cargo in this flat.” A kiss at the nape of his neck and two protective arms wrapped ‘round his waist.

That was his life, and how was it anything other than John— _his John_ –taking care of him? _Good lord, am I helpless? Why should John have to work so hard just to be with me? Does he hate me for it? Does he wish he’d chosen a different life? A different flat mate? A different… partner? Does he regret me? When will he finally get tired of this—of me –and leave?_ Those are the questions the pain-riddled mind of a genius uses to torture itself. These are the things that keep him from ringing the bell lovingly placed at his bedside. These are the fears of the fearless.

Be it pain or invented grief, Sherlock’s vision was blurred when he heard John approach his doorway. The footfalls were nearly silent, or at least John had obviously meant for them to be. He could feel him waiting in the doorway, staring, trying to work out if his patient was asleep. And Sherlock had to decide what to let him believe. There was a chance he’d turn over to find out John was done. Sick of his attitude, his incessant need to be watched over, his unintended insults. John might be standing there with a suitcase, packed and ready to walk out of his life forever. And then what? How does the man who doesn’t need to be taken care of function with no one to take care of him?

Sucking in a deep breath and all the courage he could muster, Sherlock slowly turned over to face his fear or future.

“Did I wake you, love?”

He shook his head in the dimly lit room. There was no obvious luggage, but he wasn’t satisfied.

As John approached, he must have seen the glimmer of tears in eyes which weren’t meant to cry. “What’s wrong?” He set something on the chest of drawers before taking a seat on the bed.

Sherlock had tried to speak before, and he was scolded both by John and his own throat. So, he grabbed his phone and texted. _I thought you might be done with me. –SH_

John stared at his phone until the beep sounded, then he stared as he read. “Done? How? Why?”

_I cause you nothing but trouble. Your life consists solely of caring for me. Why do you do that? –SH_

A small chuckle. “Because I love you.” John kissed his forehead. “And you’re worth it.”

_I offer you nothing, insult you, infuriate you. Why would you ever choose me? –SH_

“I never chose you, Sherlock. I just resigned myself to loving you when I realized I couldn’t do anything else. And it’s the best decision I’ve ever made.”

_I realize I don’t say it often, and right now I can’t say it at all, but I do love you. –SH_

“You say it more often than you think, in all the best and most silent ways. You say it in the ways that only I recognize. Your continued presence in my life is a constant reminder that you love me, and I aim to be the only one who’ll ever know the breadth and depth of the heart of Sherlock Holmes. I never doubt you.”

Sherlock paused for a long several seconds. His heart pounded like a hammer in his chest, the weight of John’s words crushing his lungs. No one had ever seen in him what John saw, understood him the ways John understood. His perfect little soldier was finally his, and perhaps he wasn’t just waiting for an out. Next came words he almost never spoke, and yet in the midst of his anguish, it was important that he made the effort to speak them. “Thank you.”

“Sher—”

He cut John off with the silent shake of his head, pulling an invisible zip across his lips, turning and invisible key and throwing it over his shoulder.

“You better.”  John pressed a gentle kiss to those proverbially zipped lips and stood, as if to leave.

In spite of himself, Sherlock caught John’s wrist and wouldn’t let go.

The soft grin gracing John’s lips was answer enough but he explained anyway. “I’m not going anywhere. Hold on.” He walked over to the dresser and picked up the thing he’d previously set there.

The closer he got, the more bowl-like the object became. Sherlock raised a brow questioningly, knowing better than to even think of speaking.

“Will you take anything for the pain yet?”

Sherlock shook his head with as much conviction as the shake of a head can have.

“You do realize I trust you to take prescribed drugs when necessary, right?”

A terse nod served as a reluctant reply, but Sherlock held to his strict refusal. He swore he’d never use a narcotic again unless the need was absolute, and the ache in his throat was far from the worst he could handle, even further from the worst he’d seen in his lifetime.

“Fine. At least eat this.” John held out a spoonful of lavender honey gelato, obvious by both appearance and smell without the necessity of tasting. It was the kind he couldn’t have gotten nearby, the kind he’d have had to go out of his way just to purchase. And it was Sherlock’s favourite.

Of course it was Sherlock’s favourite, because it would be. Because John— _his John_ –would make sure he had his favourite. And as Sherlock took a bite, he was left with the puzzle he couldn’t complete, the riddle he would never solve, the one answer he would trade for all other answers: How the hell did he get so lucky?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you thought "eating ice cream" sounded like a straight up fluff piece? Perhaps something sexy? No. Because why would I ever do what you expect? Sorry! <3
> 
> Of the next 3... well... at least ONE is porny perhaps 2, maybe all 3. I don't even fucking know at this point. I'm just glad I'm catching up! \o/


	14. Genderswapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is absolutely dedicated to Amber aka acrumblebatchwithcustardfreeman - It's based on a very detailed request she made ages ago that I've only just gotten around to fulfilling. Also, stupidly long chapter... I don't know if I should say I'm sorry or you're welcome! :/

Light shone out through the slightly ajar bedroom door, and John stood silently, watching. Because he had to. When the magnificent man you’ve come to share your home, life, and heart with is behind that door disguising himself as a woman, you do watch. You watch the gentle glide of nylon up long, lean legs and the subsequent clipping of stockings into black suspenders. You watch as he stuffs and adjusts a lacy black bra, stuffs himself into and also adjusts matching knickers. When someone is as graceful as Sherlock Holmes, as breathtaking and beautiful, everything he does becomes a ballet, a moving work of art.

And when he pauses, almost turns toward you, and then slowly bends—allowing semi-transparent black lace to stretch across a well-toned arse –you don’t care that he’s caught on that you’re watching. You don’t care, because the show just gets better. He gets off on you getting off on him. Sherlock’s only issue with being the center of attention is… well… when he’s not. And right then, he was more than that. He could have been the center of the goddamned universe for all John knew. The sun, the moon, the whole of the fucking cosmos, and as well he should be. Just look at him… really _look_ at him.

Black satin ruching enveloped his body, hugging narrow waist and artificial bosom alike. The heels he stepped into— _fuck me heels, to be exact_ –must have made added a solid ten centimeters to his already impressive height, and he carefully positioned himself before hiking up the leg nearest the door under the guise of sleeking his hosiery. When a finely manicured hand—complete with lengthy red fingernails –reached between his thighs to palm a poorly hidden prick, there was no question John had been spotted. Still, he didn’t move. Sure, Sherlock knew he was there, John knew that Sherlock knew, and Sherlock was likely even aware that John knew… but any admission of already established facts could topple the glorious, fragile house of cards that was their current situation.

Sherlock hiked the dress even higher, slipped those red tipped fingers under the elastic atop his knickers, and gave himself a few long strokes, just enough to make sure he was properly hard and probably more than mildly frustrated. Then down came leg and dress, the hem falling barely below the top of his stockings, and he smoothed it over his front. Only a well-defined bulge jutted out in his silhouette, pulling the purposefully gathered fabric taught across his groin.

The click-clack of heels could be heard as he disappeared just out of sight, his whereabouts now only able to be hypothesized. It would be several very long minutes before he reemerged, his lips painted red, his eyes darkened and lashes thick. Synthetic hair, every bit as dark as his own curls, hung on either side of his face, and it was a very good hair piece, as far as fakes go.

John stepped aside as Sherlock passed, though moving was quite a tall order when breathing was a chore. When John eventually noticed his mouth hanging open, he shut it. He flicked his thumb over the spot where his own prick pressed hard against his zip and forced himself to follow Sherlock to the parlour.

“Well? How do I look?” Sherlock preened in the mirror a bit more before turning to face his lover.

“Am—I mean… just… bloody fucking amazing.”

He rolled his eyes. “You needn’t flatter me. I’m already yours.”

John just shook his head until he could call on his vocabulary. “Flattery would imply insincerity, and I assure you I’m offering brazen honesty.”

“That was rather eloquent for someone whose blood supply has been largely rerouted southward from his brain.”

“I’m not the only one.” John closed the distance between them in only a few steps and slipped his hand under the dress’ hem. The cotton stretched across Sherlock’s perineum was obscenely hot to the touch, his cock inscrutably hard. And the guttural moan that slipped through those ruby red lips was the filthiest thing John had ever heard—at least, as far as he could remember, which wasn’t saying much when he could barely remember his own name. It was almost as if every word in the English language had been replaced with two syllables: Sher-lock.

With a smirk that reeked of ‘oh, yes, I know exactly what I’m doing,’ Sherlock stepped back and then strode toward the door. “Off out for a bit. A case—” He looked down his own body then back at John. “—obviously. Wait up—” A raised brow and hard emphasis on the last syllable. “—if you like.”

Before John could respond, the door shut behind him. And John— _poor John_ –was left to his own devices for god only knew how long, which turned out to be exactly two hours and thirty-seven minutes. Maybe it was more like Sherlock to keep such a specific account of time, but John could be very eccentric when he had an erection that came back every time he forgot to stop thinking about Sherlock.

And when your cock screams, _Touch me! Touch me! Think of that thing and touch me!_ , obliging it is what you most want to do. But when you know that thing— _that glorious, perfect, Sherlock-shaped thing_ –will be home soon— _oh, god, he better be home soon_ –you resist.

Though one-hundred fifty-seven minutes— _what? it’s important_ –wasn’t what John would have called ‘soon enough,’ it was still far superior to later, and he didn’t forget to be thankful for it.

_click-clack_

_click-clack_

The noisy footfalls rang out on the steps up to their flat, the subsequent and nearly silent turn of a knob. John was ready— _Jesus, fuck, he was so ready._ But when Sherlock came through the door, wig in hand and black tears streaking his ivory cheeks, lust drained away to concern. “You alright?”

“What? Of course.” He paused for thought before waving a hand absently about his face. “Oh, this? Merely a ploy to gather necessary data.”

“You get what you wanted?”

“The suspect is in custody, if that’s what you meant—” He bit at the corner of his lip. “—but I wouldn’t say I’ve yet gotten what I wanted.”

Fears assuaged, the game was on again. He could almost feel his pupils darken. “Bedroom. Now.”

“Or?” Sherlock quirked a brow. He never gave in easy, John had come to learn, no matter how much he wanted the thing he was instructed to do.

“Or, Mr. Holmes, I’ll have you right here in the parlour, any which way I like.”

“I invite you to try.”

John’s hands came to rest at Sherlock’s waist, and he steadily walked the detective backward until calves met sofa. When they came to a stop, John dropped to his knees.  The silicone enhanced mounds to either side of a rapidly beating heart were so tacitly familiar, so reminiscent of John’s past, reminding him of all the years he’d settled for what he thought he was supposed to want. And it wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the time he’d spent with women, he did. But the allure of sexual attraction that pressed no further, a relationship that didn’t challenge him but instead bored him, was quick to wane.

It was the heady scent of Sherlock’s musk, the intoxication of pheromones so strongly associated with an irresistible intellect, the undeniable thrill of a life lived on the edge, the unrelenting—and somewhat exhilarating –power struggle that he enjoyed more than he’d ever like to admit… those were the things that now drove John Watson to the brink, the ones now hotwired into the pleasure center of his brain. And, pressing his nose into the crevice formed where erection was pinned supine against groin, those influences were strong.

He gently nibbled and tugged at the satin cloak covering an ever-hardening prick, his hands now focused on depressing the fabric to better highlight the genitalia beneath. “Jesus,” he breathed, the heat of his own breath rebounding warm against his face. “Why’ve I never had you in a dress before?”

A rich, dulcet chuckle preceded the response. “You still haven’t.”

“But I will.” John pushed Sherlock down onto the couch with ease, his balance most probably still sketchy from his unfamiliar footwear and altered center of gravity. “Now sit down and shut up.”

“Is that really what you want, John?”

Rather than dignify the question with verbalization, John pressed Sherlock’s thighs wide and slid the hem of the dress up to expose the knickers below. And, even if his cock hadn’t been hazily visible through the black lace, the glans peeking from atop the waistband, leaking copiously from its glistening slit, would have given him away. Pre-cum collected and dampened the surrounding fabric, and it was the consummate picture of anticipation, beckoning John to taste. And taste he did. He mouthed his way up lacy shroud before licking at the growing pool of fluid and sucking it from the saturated fabric. And the needy groan that served to replace Sherlock’s backtalk served as further reward.

Soon, thighs were hoisted onto strong, military built shoulder and knickers tugged aside—though only where strictly necessary. John wasn’t ready to provide Sherlock with the friction he wanted most. Instead, he lapped at the puckered flesh of a waiting entrance—the spot his cock had come to call home –and pressed the point of his tongue inside. He teased at the interior walls of sensitive tissue and reveled in how quickly and easily Sherlock always opened up for him. But even when he was clearly saliva-slick and brazenly wanton, John waited. He slipped one finger inside, just enough to taunt, but he was intent on making Sherlock moan like a whore before he’d give him what he really wanted, what they _both_ really wanted.

With Sherlock prepped—at least as much as they had both learned they preferred –John scrambled onto the sofa. He fumbled with his own button and zip—no reason to cause himself a lengthier wait when the time was right –and pulled Sherlock into his lap. And, with his hands gripped tightly on Sherlock’s hips, control was his… until it wasn’t.

Before he knew what had happened, both of his arms were pinned above his head, crimson nails biting into his wrists. He struggled to free himself, but only so far as to confirm it wouldn’t be easy. “Let go,” he commanded.

“Why should I?”

“Because I bloody said so.”

A scoff. “Perhaps it’s not up to you.”

John wriggled under the force of Sherlock’s grip again. This wasn’t new. It wasn’t unfamiliar or unwanted. It was a representation of everything their relationship was and much of what their sex life had become. It was a game, and he hated how much he loved to play. “What if I don’t like it?”

“Oh, but you do.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with passion, the spark of his favourite sort of deduction. “From the moment I snagged your wrists, your irises practically vanished. Your cock twitches against mine every single time I mouth off to you. Your pulse—and don’t you dare think for a split second I’m not strictly monitoring your pulse, because I most certainly am –could rival a hummingbird’s right this very instant.” His hold tightened, a further display of his self-asserted control. “The corners of your mouth tugged into a near grin just then, even if you tried to disguise it as a wince. Because, as much as you want to dominate me, to _tame_ me, you don’t want me to make it easy.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.” Sherlock licked a broad stripe up John’s very exposed throat and pressed kisses along the line of his jaw and carotid artery, leaving a waxy trail of crimson in his wake. He bit and sucked at the good doctor’s earlobe and then continued, “You like the fight. A soldier who’s clearly enough of a crack shot to have been a sniper, and a damn good one—proved time and time again, but never quite so heroically as putting down the cabbie who endangered my life –yet you chose to be a medic. You chose to put yourself on the battlefield, to fight not only men, the most sadistic and worthy of all adversaries, but also death. You chose to be a fighter instead of a hunter, and you settle for nothing less even now. So, telling me you don’t want this—” He nipped at John’s lips, catching them and briefly allowing their tongues to curl around one another’s. “—saying you don’t _love_ this, _need_ this, _live for this_ —” Thighs still clad in stockings and suspenders tightened against John’s thighs, cock rutting hard against cock. “—only serves to make you a liar.”

John panted out ragged breaths and finally pulled his hands free. He let down the zip pulled tight against Sherlock’s spine and worked the dress over his head, feverishly tossing it to the floor. He kissed and licked at artificial cleavage and pulled a lacy cup aside to get at the pert point of a nipple. Rolling it between his teeth, one hand palmed and stroked a cock still ensconced in lace, two fingers of the other slipping under elastic and into that still slick and waiting hole, stretching is a bit wider just to feel the detective’s form go rigid. And with a twist and crook of digits, Sherlock’s resolve crumbled. The know-it-all façade fell away to piteous whimpering and the whorish moans John had vowed to hear. “Tell me what you want.”

Sherlock didn’t make a sound, save for his short, laboured breaths.

“I could do this all day. I’ll make sure this never happens for you if you don’t fucking tell me what you want.”

But still nothing, the deafening silence of insubordination and outright refusal.

Another twist of digits, along with the addition of a third, was met with a choked off sob that died in the stubborn detective’s throat.

 _Almost._ John stretched his hand into a wide tripod, and skilled fingers teased at the bundle of nerves that made Sherlock a helpless, quivering mess, relenting only long enough to give Sherlock a chance to speak.  “Say it.”

Sherlock clearly struggled to catch his breath, to see out from beneath mascara smeared and lust drooped lids, to formulate words of any coherent nature. “Fuuuuu… mmm… ffff… nnnng… fuck me.”

“What was that?” John channeled his military training, rolled his neck with satisfaction. “I can’t hear you.”

“F-f-fuck me, sir.”

Sometimes breathing sounds more like hyperventilating, and John was lucky enough to know the sound coming from Sherlock was some stilled form of the former rather than the latter. “Now say please, soldier. I want to hear you beg.”

Sherlock’s head fell back as he ground against John’s hand, desperate for something after so very long. “Please.” It was little more than a whisper, but it would suffice.

It was one very fluid motion in which John tugged down his own pants, extracted his fingers, pulled the lace of Sherlock’s knickers aside, and drove his cock home. Loving and gentle had long since gone out the window, and he knew damn well they both preferred it that way.

Sherlock gasped in the beginning of a scream, but John pressed a bruising kiss to unquieted lips and swallowed the sound. Each snap of their hips elicited another aborted cry, and the sound only made John harder. The detective’s body rolled and writhed in his lap, his cock buried to its hilt, and he struggled to hold on to his fading willpower.

A well-calculated heave and roll put Sherlock flat on his back, the heels of his stilettos marking the small of John’s back.  And each thrust now came with a grunt, an internal battle to make their interlude last as long as humanly possible—as long as _inhumanly_ possible, if only he knew how.

The tight heat of stretched muscle fluttered around him, and it was only a matter of time. The familiar twist in the pit of his stomach told the tale… it had begun and would soon end. A tingle at the base of his spine spread white hot through his veins, but he held on. The tension of riding so close to the edge was maddening, but he wouldn’t voluntarily teeter over.

Then came the final straw. “Harder, John. Fuck me harder.” The ring of muscle wrapped ‘round John’s cock clenched and released in time with this strokes. “Deeper, John. Fuck me. Oh, god, John… I need to feel you cum.”

And cum he did. He came so hard and so fast that he saw the cosmos explode behind his eyelids. Every hypersensitive nerve ending in his body set was set aflame, and he pumped himself dry. When he finally pulled out, wilted and very nearly sore, he sunk to his knees on the floor, his sweat drenched brow resting on a sofa cushion.

Trying in earnest to catch your breath so as to hasten the process of getting your lover’s cock into your mouth is a good sign you’ve got it bad, and John had it bad… _so. fucking. bad._ But his plan was about to go off the tracks. By the time he’d felt Sherlock’s weight lift off the sofa, he was already staring up at the beautiful man now towering over him. And, when he finally tucked elastic under very heavy, very tight bollocks and swirled his tongue around a ruddy glans, which had to be positively aching for attention, Sherlock found the determination to pull away. John’s face fell with disappointment, his barely function brain swimming with worry. _Had he done something wrong?_

_click-clack_

_click-clack_

The heels stopped behind him, greedy hands dragging his trousers and pants down his legs and off. Then a set of knees pressed between his own. When a spit slicked finger drew tight, concentric circles around his entrance, he sobbed. Every cell in his body felt overstimulated, but Sherlock knew how to hurt so good. John was powerless to resist, a malleable mess of a man, but— _oh, god_ –he wouldn’t have stopped it even if he’d had the energy to try. And each poking prod of that fingertip—the false nail discarded to who knows where –pressed it further inside him. And each gentle, stretching revolution of that finger brought another sharply sucked breath. But sometimes too much still isn’t quite enough.

“Just do it. Please,” he gasped, wanting more and less all at the same time.

Sherlock stopped. “John, I—”

“Leak pre-ejaculate like a fucking sieve? Yeah, I know.  I’ll make do.” His voice, often likened to a purr devolved into a growl. “Now fuck me.”

The soft whimpers and slick sound of Sherlock fucking his own fist confirmed he was soon to obey. And, a few short moments later, the head of an alarmingly slippery prick pressed hot against his entrance.

“Do it,” John commanded again, and Sherlock sank in. John winced at the sound of his own cry as pain seared through him. But, fuck, if it wasn’t amazing all the same.

Sherlock pulled John flush into his lap and wrapped long arms around a still shirted torso. Usually steady fingers fumbled with buttons and finally coaxed fabric away from flesh. Fingernails raked up and down John’s chest and abdomen, seven of eight of them still tipped in red, and they rocked together slowly.

John raised an arm and draped it languidly around Sherlock’s neck, his fingers threading into severely mussed locks and gently tugging.  He craned his neck to suck at an Adam’s apple on overt display. And, when Sherlock tucked his head and moaned directly into John’s ear, even his ‘I never want to be touched again’ cock twitched a bit at the sound.

Obscenely large hands gripped John’s hips, lifted him slightly, and slammed him back down, causing both of them to groan in the excruciating ecstasy. And again and again and again, it happened… but it wouldn’t last long. Sherlock had been neglected, his prick left untouched for far too long. John knew what that meant; they _both_ knew what that meant.

Less than two dozen strokes later, Sherlock went a bit still and John found the strength to grind hard on his cock. “Cum inside me, Sherlock. Please. I need to feel you fill me. Please. Please. Please.” Each ‘please’ punctuated with a slow roll of the hips.

Then came a familiar throb and the barely audible, “Oh, god, I’m about to cum.”

“Say my name,” John whispered into Sherlock’s open mouth, hot breath passing back and forth between them in shallow bursts. “Say my name when you cum.”

And Sherlock just dissolved, his voice chanting out a string of syllables: _oh-god-john-oh-god-john-oh-god-john-oh-god_

Then warmth erupted deep inside the idol Sherlock was clearly worshiping, and that idol grinned a satisfied grin.

Curled side by side on the floor of their parlour, John and Sherlock bathed in both moonlight and post-orgasmic afterglow. A few quiet kisses were passed back and forth, but no words needed to be spoken. When John woke a couple of hours later, still wrapped in his lover’s arms, he convinced Sherlock to follow him to bed. And the ache in his back told him parlour floors were more suited for sex than sleep, but the night he’d just had was well worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, Amber... This has been so fucking much fun to write. Oh, god. Request things more often. I hope it lives up to your expectations! <3 I love you!
> 
> It's 4:30am, and I've been writing this thing off and on for 2 days. I've had less than 8 hours of sleep in the last 48 hours... broken into 2 nap-like shifts. I have no clue how many errors there might be in this, and I'm SO sorry. If you catch something, don't hesitate to tell me... but don't judge me TOO hard for it.


	15. In a Different Clothing Style

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very different clothing style... oh, god... just... I can't even...
> 
> Thanks to Aeron (aka yetanotherartblogon) yet again for the inspiration... photo link in the notes at the end.
> 
> Also dedicated to ladyelayne, who gave me the idea of Sherlock in leather pants. This one's for you, doll! ;)

Taking someone who looks like Sherlock Holmes to Milan Fashion Week is a mistake one doesn’t recognize until it’s already too late. But when crime calls, Sherlock answers. Have Watson, will travel. And the one thing Sherlock doesn’t understand is the thing that John never forgets, but sometimes he does take it for granted.  In the middle of Milan Fashion Week, a face and physique like Sherlock’s is likely to be mistaken for that of a runway model, and when Sherlock needs a better vantage point, he doesn’t fight the stylist trying to squeeze him into the very un-Sherlock attire.

A charcoal grey leather bolero jacket cloaked long arms and shoulders, and matching trousers clung tightly to lean, muscular thighs. Slung low on narrow hips, John wasn’t sure what was possibly holding them up. Moreover, he couldn’t take his eyes off the V-shaped ridge running from Sherlock’s hip to groin, the one he fondly remembered tracing with his tongue in the privacy of their bedroom, the one he had come to think of as his, the one a crowded audience shouldn’t have been able to see.

Just when he thought nothing could be more distracting, a stylist affixed chains to either side of the jacket’s opening. Several dozen of them draped Sherlock loosely from neck to navel, thin strands of ebony standing stark against the ivory expanse of his bare torso. John stared, adjusted himself, and absently worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Are you his handler?” An unfamiliar female voice brought him back ‘round.

“Hmm? Me? Yeah, I suppose you could say that.”

“He’s beautiful. Looks a bit of a prat, though. Is he hard to work with?”

“Mmm… yes… he’s often very hard.” John bit back a chuckle. The sideways glance and amused smirk from Sherlock confirmed he had overheard and wholeheartedly approved.

When Sherlock took to the runway, he strutted— _oh, god, did he strut_. And John looked on with a smile, his perfect peacock on proud display. Because no matter how much of Sherlock the crowd could see, they would never know the parts of Sherlock John knew intimately—not just the parts obscured with avant-garde garb, but the ones hidden beneath skin and bone and muscle… the heart that beat in his chest, the heart of both a lover and a warrior. No one would ever know his heart like John, and that—far more than those unabashedly stunning visible bits –was what made him most beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the outfit: http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mdof08yqoo1r7to3o.jpg
> 
> I'm not even sorry... just... you're welcome!


	16. During Their Morning Ritual(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or the interruption thereof.

John awoke late on a lazy Saturday. Though he didn’t have anywhere to be, he was still surprised at being allowed a lie in. It had been ages since Sherlock hadn’t startled him awake, intentionally or otherwise.

“There’s a case, John.”

“John, I broke [insert item here]… again.”

“Joooooohn, I’m bored.”

_BOOM!_

Those were the most common ways John had come to expect to be roused from sleep, _BOOM!_ being his least favourite… to date, at least. When he was occasionally able to sleep late, it was usually because Sherlock had finally relented to sleep and was still snuggled next to him. But that wasn’t the case either. He woke alone in Sherlock’s… er… _their_ bed. When he reached the parlour, he found Sherlock shuffling seemingly aimlessly around the flat.

“You okay, love?” John asked—half curiosity, half concern.

“Hmm? Yeah. ‘Course.”

 _Fuck. Not good._ “What’s wrong?” He followed Sherlock to the kitchen.

“No. Nothing. Here.” Sherlock set a small plate on the table. “I made you toast.”

John approached to investigate and was horrified to find a cup of tea fixed precisely to his liking and his morning paper as well. “Oh, god, Sherlock… What’d you break? Did you kill someone? Did you… did you cheat—” He choked on the last word.

“What? No. Of course not.” Sherlock paced, picked up the plate and cup and took it toward the sink. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered under his breath.

To say Sherlock’s behaviour was disconcerting would be putting it mildly. “S’wrong? You… you can trust me. You must know you can trust me.”

“I do. I just… _fuck_.”

“Sherlock?”

“I’m no good at this, at any of this.” He scrubbed his palms against his scalp.

“No good at what?”

“This. Domesticity. Being in a relationship. I’m rubbish.”

“Jesus, Sherlock… Are you trying to—” Bile rose in John’s throat, an uneasiness swirling in the pit of his stomach. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, and he suddenly became acutely aware of exactly how much Sherlock had come to mean to him. It’s not that he didn’t know before, but he had never been quite as cognizant of how empty his life would be if everything ended. There was no going back. They’d never be friends or flat mates again, because they’d really never been so little… not even in the beginning. _Oh, god, I’m about to lose the love of my life and my best friend all in one fail swoop._ “—are you trying to break up with me?”

“What? Oh, god. No. This would be so much easier if you weren’t so bloody stupid.”

“So, you’re not then?” John could ignore being called stupid if it meant keeping Sherlock, even if he was a prat sometimes.

“No. Never.” Sherlock wrapped John up in a protective, apologetic, overtly affectionate embrace. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t know why you put up with me at all.”

John cinched his arms tight around Sherlock’s torso and nuzzled at the hollow of his throat. “Just don’t get scared and run away, okay? There’s nothing we can’t work out.”

“John, I—” Sherlock pulled out of the hug and walked toward the sink again. “There’s something I need to do… or say.”

“I’m listening.”

“Sit… please?”

It was still hard to not be terrified by a polite Sherlock, but John did as instructed. “Sitting. Just tell me already. You’re worrying me.”

Sherlock moved warily toward the table, the plate of now cold toast once again in his hand… his _trembling_ hand. He thrust it toward John. “Take it. You’ll understand.”

So he took it. He stared, but clarity didn’t come. “I… I don’t.”

“Pick it up.” Sherlock nodded toward the dish.

John lifted the top slice and looked hopefully at his lover for further instruction. “Now what?”

“I don’t know. Set it somewhere. Throw it at the wall. Just get rid of it.”

“Um… yeah… okay.” John set it on the table near his cooled tea.

“Now the other.” Sherlock paced again, clenching and unclenching his fists.

It was with the removal of the second piece of cold, sogging bread that revealed what had gotten Sherlock so riled, so on edge. It’s funny how something as simple as a thin, metal band can unsettle a genius. “Sherlock, is this—” John looked up to find his answer in the form of Sherlock on bended knee. “Oh, god, I—”

“Fuck. This was a bad idea, wasn’t it? You’re horrified. We don’t have to. Just… don’t leave me. You can pretend it never happened. It’s fine, I understand. Why would anyone want to…”

“Sherlock.” John slunk to his knees in front of the quivering mess of a consulting detective, _his_ quivering mess of a consulting detective. “Shhh… stop.” He lifted Sherlock’s chin, caught his gaze and steadied him. “I don’t want to pretend it never happened. I just… I don’t even know how to begin to plan a wedding.”

And the relieved shock, the brazen hopefulness in Sherlock’s eyes was worth it… worth all of it. “Is that a yes?”

“Nope…” John smirked. “Not until you ask.”

“Anything for you. Anything.” Sherlock cleared his throat before he continued. “You’re the only person who’s ever chosen me, stayed with me by choice rather than obligation. You’ve spent the most time with me, seen me at my worst, and still you stay. You essentially watched me die, mourned me, understood why I lied, and accepted me back into your life. You consistently trust me when I’ve given you no reason to and choose me over everyone and everything else. It’s not that I want you legally obligated to stay; it’s that this is the first glimpse I’ve had of normal life. It’s not a life I ever expected I might live, not even one I thought I’d ever want. But you’ve been making even the boring moments into something beautiful since the moment I met you. You’re better than any drug, and I’m a happy addict. If you’re mine, I want to tell the world that you are. Marry me, John. Please?”

“Sherlock… it’s just… marriage.” John shook his head. “Isn’t this all a bit mundane for you? A bit too traditional?”

“I think I could do with a little mundane, John... just this once. What do you say?”

“Yes.” John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s lips and whispered against them. “I say yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because, awkward as fuck... and I love it.


	17. Spooning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'awww...

Moonlight bathed the face of the sleeping doctor and glinted off the polished white gold adorning his right ring finger. _I’ll switch hands when we’re official_ , he promised. It had been less than twenty-four hours since Sherlock slid the band into place, but the hard, unsteady pounding in his chest suggested it could be twenty-four _years_ and he’d still not be used to the sight.

Sherlock knelt by the bed and raised quiet praise to the only being he deemed worthy of it. “Oh, John… my John.” He light fingered the cool metal ring. “You baffle the mind. I’ve asked you so many questions, and I don’t understand why you ever said yes. _Will you be taking the spare room? Can you ever forgive me for leaving you like I did? Will you marry me?_ I paraphrase, of course.

“I’ve already been granted far more yesses than I deserve, yet I hold out hope for one more. _Will you, John Watson, take Sherlock Holmes_ … well… to paraphrase the greatest man I know: just one more thing, one more yes, one more miracle, John, for me. I’ll try to be worthy, I will. I’ve been called many an epithet, many an F-word over the years. ‘Faggot’ was often hissed at me when I was younger. ‘Freak’ still rings out at each and every crime scene. But never has an F sounded so beautiful or fit so perfectly as hearing you say ‘fiancé.’

“What I did to ever earn your love is a mystery, but I daren’t question it. Just know, in all of my failings, all of my shortcomings, all of my oversights… just know I’m thankful for you. And never doubt I love you. For, if ever I’ve known love in my life, its name has been and continues to be John Watson.”

Sherlock lifted himself up and crawled into bed, his front pressed the length of John’s back. He pressed a lingering, open-mouthed kiss on John’s jaw, just below his earlobe, and curled his arm possessively around the waist of his doctor. “I won’t let you go, John. Not now, not ever.”

John’s jaw tightened into a sleepy grin, and he squirmed comfortably in Sherlock’s grip. Quietly moaning his approval, he pulled Sherlock’s arm even tighter and, consciously or subconsciously, coaxed his hand from waist to hip to groin. Snugged away in the bed they shared and in the wee small hours of the morning, spooning, as it often did, turned to forking. For the first time in either of their lives, each enjoyed the touch of his fiancé. And the mess they left till morning would be well worth the effort it took to clean it up. Lesson learned: the time it takes to wash the sheets is roughly equal to the time necessary to have sex in the shower… twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It happened... at least briefly!


	18. Doing Something Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because DoubleNegativeMeansYes is amazing, and her art gives me fucking chills... So, this chapter is based on this image: http://doublenegativemeansyes.tumblr.com/post/27120225779/in-a-confined-space

“Caring is not an advantage”…  It was true, even if irrelevant. Caring makes people stupid and irrational.

Before Lestrade had even announced the building was clear, Sherlock was already running the expanse of the abandoned warehouse, searching every corner. Footfalls, as loud as thunder, clapped against concrete and echoed into the abyss.

“John!” Sherlock’s voice rebounded back to him. “JOHN!” He repeated himself, only louder.

Finally, he rounded a corner to an old, thin door. Behind it, a voice scratchy with dehydration and strain answered. Small and rough and more prayer than reply, the voice was still undeniably John’s. When the door swung open, there he was— facing away, on his knees, and shackled to the walls on either side of a cramped storage room. And the right thing to do would have been to unshackle him and get him checked out by a medic. But the right thing, the _rational_ thing wasn’t in the cards.

Sherlock skidded to his knees on the floor behind his fiancé and clung to him. Tears streaked the detective’s cheeks, tears of concern turned relief. John wasn’t often the one in danger, the careless one who got himself into trouble… but this time was different. It made Sherlock consider all the times he had run off half-cocked after a criminal and the verbal berating he always got later on. This was what John was always upset about, the potential of having to live through Sherlock’s current reality. And he could no longer begrudge those verbal beatings, could no longer question his motives or blame him for his hurt and anger. Because John should never have to feel what he was feeling, should never have to wonder if he’d find the man he loved alive… or not.

So, Sherlock clung and clawed and buried his face against John’s shoulder. He explored and clutched and held on for dear life, overwhelmingly worried John may again slip away. Kisses came fevered and frantic, the doctor’s neck craned awkwardly around just to make it possible. But he didn’t complain, verbally or physically. He didn’t tug at his restraints or ask to be freed; he merely pressed himself back against Sherlock’s body and relented to the security and comfort of a familiar touch.

The buttons of John’s shirt popped off and skittered away at Sherlock’s insistent tugging, absolutely needing the feeling of skin on skin to prove John was _real_ , was still _there_ , was still _his_. His lips and teeth marked neck and shoulder, his tongue exploring the familiar crater of the scar that brought John home from war, back to London, and into Sherlock’s life. That beautiful, perfect, matchmaking scar… Who says war doesn’t serve a purpose?

And, in a flash of logic sparked by a distant voice, Sherlock was brought momentarily back to his senses. “John, we should—”

“Fuck.” John’s reply came as a whimper from a throat abused from screaming and deprived of liquids. “Touch me. Don’t stop touching me. Please.”

And Sherlock wouldn’t have to be told twice, because even if it wasn’t the right thing to do, it was still something. Buttons and zips were easily released, Sherlock’s knee squeezed between John’s thighs. One hand fisted into sandy blond hair, and the other slipped below the waistband of boxer briefs, the severity of John’s erection leaving little question as to just how much he enjoyed danger. Even just a few quick strokes was enough for Sherlock’s palm to be slicked nearly to the point of dripping with the pre-ejaculate practically pouring from the tip of John’s cock.

The same hand slid ‘round to John’s arse, and those long, thin fingers were easily pressed inside. Sherlock was always impressed with how receptive John was to penetration, how he would quickly and easily open up to him, as if he was always ready and waiting. And he wasted very little time before tugging pants aside just enough to make all necessary parts accessible. Then up and in he pushed. A cry broke in John’s throat, his ability to verbalize seriously compromised. But he could whisper— _oh, god, could he whisper._

“Jesus, Sherlock, I thought I might never see you again. I thought I might die here, never feel this, never have you inside me again. I thought of you, and when the pain got bad, I thought of your cock. I thought of it filling me up just like this, thought of how much I enjoyed this pain and wished I was feeling you instead. I pulled at my shackles, desperate to touch myself when I thought of you. But I couldn’t, and I still can’t. I need you to do it for me. Fuck. Just touch me. Put your hands on me. Let me feel you here.”

“You had to know I’d come for you, John.”

“Nnnnnng… fuck, yes, Sherlock… I knew you’d come for me. Please, Sherlock… please… cum for me.”

And it was then Sherlock realized they weren’t moving, had never _started_ moving. But the space was small, so motion was difficult—which isn’t to say it was impossible. With Sherlock’s fist firmly wrapped around John’s cock, John began to rock.

Then rocking became bobbing, and Sherlock stroked John in time. The closer John got to the edge— _and, let’s be honest, it wouldn’t take long under the circumstances_ –the less he bobbed, and the more he ground. His hips worked in small, impatient circles until prick and prostate obviously met. John’s heartbeat fluttered hard and hot around Sherlock’s cock, and his erection twitched and pulsed in Sherlock’s hand. A string of expletives trickled from John’s mouth as he shot hard, cumming across Sherlock’s fist and down his own stomach. And, a few seconds later, Sherlock followed. His own cock throbbed and jerked to completion buried deep in John’ arse, ejaculate flooding hot and then flowing back down Sherlock’s prick as he extracted himself.

Minimal clean-up was attempted, and zero fucks were given. Because John could have died, and Sherlock would have fucked him in front of the whole of the Met if that’s what it took to comfort him, make him feel safe and whole and complete again. And when they emerged from the room, clearly debauched, no one had the gall to speak of it, nor did anyone question how long they had been inside.

Maybe what they did wasn’t the right thing, but doing something was superior to doing nothing… and at least they did that something together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really do it justice, but I've had a really long night. So, I guess I'll just have to live with that. Sorry it wasn't one of the better chapters, and I'm even sorrier that it's probably terribly inappropriate and unbelievable. I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. Sorry...


	19. In Formal Wear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been both sick and busy... so, if this is even sort of what I intended it to be, I'm doing well.

For couples like Sherlock and John—couples who aren’t what anyone would call traditional –anniversaries are just days… but they’re days when the two collude to be a bit less Sherlock-and-John-like and a bit more like normal people. A nice dinner, perhaps taking in a show at the cinema… they try. Sherlock mostly does it for John, and John does it because he thinks it’s what he’s supposed to do.

But this anniversary… _this anniversary_ was special. It was their first anniversary since getting engaged, and it would be the last before they were married. Essentially, it was the first, last, and only of its kind, and John was intent on celebrating it accordingly. That really _was_ the plan. How’s the saying go, though? ‘The path to Hell is paved with good intentions.’ This one certainly was… or, rather, the path to a head cold _from_ Hell.

When your skull feels like it might explode—a visual John only wished didn’t remind him of that time when Sherlock… er… never mind… let’s just say it was all in the name of science. Hm? What? Right! When your skull feels like it might explode, at least to the extent John’s did, you sometimes wish it would just do it and get it the fuck over with.

The problem was this: his head wouldn’t just explode. Nor would it stop hurting long enough for him to enjoy a night out. So, in bed he sat, twiddling and toiling his way through an anniversary so unique it rivaled even Sherlock. And speaking of Sherlock…

He had gotten called out on a case, one which John had to decline due to his illness… because he _was_ ill… ya know, in case I’d neglected to mention that before. Oh? You knew? Well, let’s move on then. Back to Sherlock and his case… or, rather, coming home _from_ his case.

It was half seven when Sherlock got back to the flat, and it just nearly the first time they had seen each other all day… on their anniversary… and a particularly unique one at that. Ya know, in case I’d forgotten to mention it before. No? Good. Anyway… Sherlock came home, and John pouted. And no amount of ‘it’s just a day’ and ‘there’ll be other anniversaries’ was going to cheer him up.

So, when a sullen doctor told an oft petulant detective to ‘just go celebrate without him,’ the doctor soon regretted his command because he believed said detective had done exactly that. And when a seldom romantic Sherlock strolled back into the flat at half eight and didn’t even bother to go into his blogger’s room, sullen turned to sulking and seething. But when John’s nearly never sentimental fiancé did finally appear in his doorway, the previously sour doctor smiled. Because Sherlock, the beautiful, brilliant man that he was, donned a tuxedo—yes, _that_ tuxedo –and he came bearing gifts of Chinese takeaway, a bag, and his violin.

“What on earth are you doing?” John asked in tone that suggested it was more apology than question.

Sherlock crossed the room and took a seat on the bed. “Bringing the celebration to you.”

“But why? I was awful.”

“And sometimes I shoot at the wall. We all have bad days. This was really important to you, and I never want you to forget how important you are to me.”

John moved to kiss Sherlock’s cheek but instead caught his lips—thanks in no small part to a very intentional turn of a certain detective’s head. “What’re you doing? You’ll get sick.”

“And, if so, you’ll take care of me, because that’s simply what John Watsons do. I’m happy to chance it to kiss my fiancé on our anniversary.”

John grinned. “What’s in the bag?”

“You open the food, and I’ll give you a hint.” Sherlock poised the violin under his chin and drew his bow to a very recognizable tune of ‘dun dududun dundun dududun doo wee ooh,’ to which John’s face responded by lighting up the entire fucking room. “I suspect you recognize it.”

“Recognize it? Of course I recognize it. Gimme, gimme.” John grabbed for the bag and pulled out a cardboard TARDIS jammed full of DVDs. “You bought the series for me?”

“I bought it for _us_. I’ve been curious ever since you put on a leather jacket and told me to call you Nine.”

“Oh, Nine is brilliant. You’ll love Nine.”

John rambled, Sherlock listened, and they both ate. And, a few hours later, they drifted off to sleep in one another’s arms as Charles Dickens faced off with The Gelth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know posting day 19 on day 26 is a bad sign, but I like to think I'll catch up. If not, I can at least assure you that I will finish the series... even if it takes more than 30 days.


	20. Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! It's so fucking fluffy and ridiculous and my fucking heart just... ugh... I'm not EVEN sorry.

Sometimes keeping company with the world’s only Consulting Detective is tedious. Sometimes it’s dangerous. And sometimes it earns you an ASBO… or four. And, from the ashes of an ASBO, a phoenix of community service can sometimes arise.

On this particular occasion, John was tasked with putting in some hours at a care home, which even he would admit wasn’t really much of a punishment. Sherlock, on the other hand—who was absolutely accompanying John since the ASBOs were his fault to begin with –would disagree.  But no amount of whining was going to convince John to let Sherlock off the hook. So into a cab they climbed, where the whining and not listening continued until they pulled up to their destination.

“What are we meant to do with these people?” Sherlock asked as John paid the cabbie.

“Keep them company, provide a bit of entertainment, whatever. Some of them are really interesting.”

Sherlock just raised a doubtful eyebrow.

“Oh, at least give them a chance,” John pleaded.

“Can we play checkers?”

“Nope.”

“Chess?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Cluedo?” Sherlock’s eyes lit up.

John stopped mid-step. “God, no. Never. Not for as long as I live.”

Sherlock’s response was an honest to god whimper, and his bottom lip genuinely threatened to quiver. “What are you going to do with them?”

“You’re lucky you’re gorgeous.” John shook his head. “I thought I’d teach a bit of ballroom dancing.”

“Ball—ball—” The fit of giggles the erupted from Sherlock was neither polite nor decent. He was wheezing by the time he completed the four simple syllables. “Ballroom dancing?”

“Yes, ballroom dancing! What’s so funny?”

“Do you even know how?”

“Of course I do.” John scowled, growing more offended by the second. “I mean, I did. I’m sure I remember a bit of it. At least enough to do a couple hours’ worth of instruction. It’s certainly not like you know the first thing about it.”

“No, no.” Sherlock bit back the remainder of his giggles. “Obviously not. It’s terribly ordinary and boring.”

“Fine. Could you at least sit quietly in the corner and try not to offend anyone?”

“I’ll certainly try,” a more composed Sherlock replied.

John truly found his visits to the care home heartwarming. He was always received so positively, and everyone seemed genuinely grateful for the attention. Sometimes it was sad... one woman, Frances, was suffering from Alzheimer’s and insisted on calling John by her son’s name, but he played along well. The nurses told him her real son hadn’t been back in quite some time, so John was all too happy to pretend. Her smile made the whole charade well worth it. Then there was Bernard, who could barely walk on good days, but he was always quick—relatively speaking –to his feet to greet John with a handshake and a hug. He was ex-military as well, and he loved to sit and swap war stories. Not many people were willing to listen to his ‘I got shot once’ tale more than twice, but John had heard it at least fifteen times and would still smile and commiserate his way through it fifteen more if need be. And Mary… _Oi!_ Mary had quite a crush on our dear little John. She said she always loved a man in uniform and was certain he made a rather handsome soldier in his day, swore he still would. She was sweet—if not a bit handsy –but she’d lost interest since he’d talked Bernard into getting his old uniform out of storage. Luckily it still fit, and—you guessed it –an instant love connection! They both started referring to John as their matchmaker ever since that day, and he can’t help but smile every time they hold hands or kiss.

Today was different though, because today John was stressed. He had hoped bringing Sherlock along would be fun or enlightening or… or… something. And, well, it was turning out to be _something_ alright, even if he wasn’t exactly sure what that something was.

Once inside, John was surprised to see Sherlock take a seat off to the side… exactly as he had asked. Because, of all the things that Sherlock routinely did, ‘as he’s asked’ was rarely one of them. But there was work to be done. So, John gathered his regulars and quickly explained what he had planned, much to their excitement, and he tried to ignore how closely Sherlock watched him and the thin smile on his previously pouting detective’s lips—sometimes a smiling Sherlock was a dangerous thing.

Still, all was well… until it wasn’t. First, the music refused to play, though that was sorted fairly quickly. Then, there was a small scuffle in the queue when Grace cut in front of Mary, who was having none of it—especially not after Mary had caught Grace making eyes at Bernard three days prior if the argument that followed was any sort of reliable. But the third problem would be the most… well… problematic. John really didn’t remember much of anything about dancing, and it wasn’t until the music started that he realized he didn’t remember. In fact, he’d been so intent on convincing Sherlock he knew exactly what he was doing, he hadn’t even considered he might not have a clue. Perhaps his nerves were partially to blame, but even the simplest box step evaded him. And what to do?

Lost and mortified and in absolute agony, John did was John does: he looked at Sherlock, because… well… fire exposes our priorities. And Sherlock was already on his feet—because he would be. John winced and wriggled and waited for the impending gloating or berating… but none was coming. Instead, Sherlock simply asked John if he might cut in.

“His knee’s been acting up today, but he’s just too proud to let it ruin his plans,” Sherlock added in the direction of a very understanding, very concerned Mildred.

So, when Mildred tutted and ordered John to a nearby seat, he was grateful and did as he was instructed—because you don’t mess with Mildred. He’d seen her at BINGO and wasn’t keen on arguing with her. And from that seat, John watched. Sherlock had called dancing ‘ordinary’ and ‘boring’ and agreed he knew nothing about it. But, if that was all true, what on earth was he planning to do when the music started again?

All questions were soon answered, though. Because the music did start, and what Sherlock did was swirl and glide and dip—yes, _dip_ – and swoop an utterly spellbound Mildred across the expanse of floor. The whole of the queue marveled and cheered, and John sat mesmerized by the remarkable man who had seen fit to choose him. He watched as everyone took a turn and, from what he could tell, fell slightly in love with the love of his life. And when I say ‘everyone,’ I mean _everyone_ —men and women alike –because no one is immune to Holmesian charms… apparently. And when the queue was empty—despite both Josephine and Clarence having gone through twice –Mildred asked John if he thought his knee could manage one ‘twirl around the dance floor with [his] sweetheart,’ and he couldn’t bear to tell her no—mostly because he’d recognized a twinge of jealousy once or twice, not that he’d ever admit to it. And as John rose to his feet—careful to mind his ‘bum knee’ –Sherlock smiled and bowed. He _god. damn. bowed._

But, when John melted into Sherlock’s arms, Sherlock was quick to reassure. “Just follow my lead. I’ll go easy on you. And one, two, three, one, two, three—”

“Sherlock?” John asked as they spun across the floor.

“Hm? Two, three.”

"Where did you learn to dance?"

"Mummy insisted both Mycroft and I learned at a very young age." Shrerlock rolled his eyes. "We took private lessons. Sometimes I even let Mycroft lead."

John tried and failed to quell a chuckle. “I thought you didn’t know how to dance. You called it ordinary and boring.”

“Yes, _you_ thought I didn’t know how to dance, and I didn’t correct you. And it _was_ ordinary and boring.”

“Was?”

“Well—” Sherlock spun John and dipped him back for a gentle peck on the lips. “I’d never danced with _you_ before.”

Sometimes being in love with the world’s only Consulting Detective is tedious. Sometimes it’s dangerous. And sometimes it earns you an ASBO… or four. But it’s always, always, _always_ worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, but I like it enough for ALL of us (which is not something I will often say)!


	21. Cooking/Baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... sort of...

When Sherlock stepped through the door of 221B, his olfactory senses were pleasantly assaulted by the smell of something cooking—roasting, if he were to guess. “That smells delicious, John. I think I may actually eat tonight,” he called but received no response. “John?”

As he made his way through the flat, he finally stopped at the closed door of the bedroom they shared and opened it to find his fiancé sound asleep. “John?” he called again and crossed the room to jostle him.

“Hmm? Wha?” came a sleepy reply from a sleepy man.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” John stretched, rubbed his eyes, and stirred to sit. “Just had a bit of a headache and thought I’d lie down for a minute.”

“It’s fine. You rest.” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead. “The flat smells amazing, though. What time shall I take the food out of the oven?”

“Food? No. I was just preheating. The chicken’s not yet gone in.”

Sherlock’s brow creased with concern. “But…” He pointed toward the kitchen. “I can smell… hm… never mind. Go back to sleep.”

Then John’s expression fell to discontent as well as he sniffed the air. “Sh’lock,” he slurred—as he often did when only half awake, “what’s that smell?”

“Well, I don’t mean to alarm you, but you did remove the human head from the oven before preheating it, didn’t you?”

“The hu—” John seemed to snap to wakefulness in a matter of seconds. “The _what?!_ ”

“Ah.” Sherlock pursed his lips before they twitched into a grin. “Angelo’s?”

With eyes closed, John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Turn off the oven first, and _you’re_ cleaning this up.”

“Yep,” Sherlock agreed without hesitation. “And you’ll check the oven before turning it on next time?”

“Oh, yes. But… why the oven?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Nope, but you can tell me on the ride over to watch the cabbie squirm.” John smirked. “I’ll get my coat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't the one who came up with this. Blame kylasedai (aka Jillian)!


	22. In Battle, Side By Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really short... and sort of formatted as poetry... and I don't know why... sorry... I'm just... sorry...

Side by side and ready to fight,   
Game faces on for the battle ahead.  
Armoured but also armed to the teeth.  
Outnumbered but very well equipped.  
An onslaught of enemies all prepped for war,   
Seasoned veterans who take no prisoners.  
Elbows were thrown and a was pistol whipped—though only once.  
John was the first to be hit,   
He tail spun dizzyingly toward the ground.  
But vengeance has a name, and that name is Sherlock…   
And that assailant was very soon and very thoroughly assailed.  
Then Sherlock raised his fallen friend,   
His battered blogger,   
His lambasted love—  
He lifted him up and helped him along.  
And perhaps it was foolish to risk life and limb…

But appliances were sixty percent off,  
And they did need a new fridge—a second, ‘no body parts allowed’ fridge.  
And Sherlock had ruined most of their cookware.  
And that shiny new microscope sang a siren song to Sherlock ‘gimme gimme’ Holmes.  
And Mycroft did so love Wedgwood,  
Which was relevant with his wedding just ‘round the corner.  
Sure,  
It was Boxing Day,  
But needs simply must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *snicker* To be honest, I'm not really sorry at all... (not even a little)


	23. Arguing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hurt me to write this, I'll have you know.

Sherlock stood over the body he’d been studying, coat collar popped against the cold winter air, and paced. “Clearly self-inflicted. No mystery here. What do you need me for?”

Lestrade stopped chewing on his pen briefly. “Self-inflicted? Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Sherlock glared, his breath making a visible display as he sighed. “I’m always sure.”

“Alright.” Lestrade nodded at the body. “Then who is he?”

“Can you people do nothing for yourselves anymore? Must I tell you everything?”

“Nah. I’d just hate to think I’d wasted the time of Sherlock Holmes. So, deduce me something since that’s what you do.”

John stood quietly off to the side, snickering to himself over their exchange. Lestrade seemed to be in quite good spirits since he and Mycroft married, which John didn’t understand in the slightest. He wasn’t sure how spending _more_ time with Mycroft would make anyone happier, but he was glad Greg seemed to be. In fact, there were a great many people who similarly didn’t understand how Sherlock made him happy. To each his own, he supposed. He was rather lost in thought as Sherlock deduced for Greg, though his expression suggested he was making at least half of it up just to prove a point. He didn’t need to hear Sherlock to know what he was doing… not after so long together. But when he did turn a listening ear…

“Soldier. Recently returned from war. I’m sure of that much. Check people discharged from the military between six months and one year ago. Too far gone to have come back any more recently than six months, but he wouldn’t have lasted more than a year in this state,” Sherlock was saying.

“This state?” John meandered over, suddenly curious.

“Mm. Mindless cog in the killing machine. Sent home and left without purpose. Just another shell-shocked soldier who decided ‘life was too hard.’” Sherlock spoke in a mocking tone. “I’m sure you must know the type.”

“Know the type? Are you suggest—”

“Uh oh.” Lestrade chuckled in the distance.

“What?” Sherlock looked perplexed in the way only Sherlock can—that ‘I’ve said something wrong but I’ve no clue what it was’ sort of way.

“Know the type because I _was_ the type?”

“No, I—”

“And did you say ‘mindless cog in the killing machine’? I mean, is that really what you think of people like me?”

“In general, perhaps. But I don’t think of _you_ that way.”

“Oh, well, thanks for that. For a second, I thought maybe you thought just as poorly of me. It’s quite a relief to know your feelings only extend as far as my friends who died in battle, the ones I couldn’t save, who gave their lives so you might enjoy the freedom to call them ‘mindless cogs’ and mock the suffering of the few who did make it home. Quite the relief indeed.”

“I’m glad you understand, John. But you still sound angry.”

“Do I? I can’t imagine why.” John glowered at his infuriating fiancé. “How about you go with Greg tonight so you can more properly consider why I might still be angry.”

“Fine. If that's what you want, then that’s precisely what I’ll do.”

Before Lestrade could open his mouth to protest, Sherlock had walked straight over to Anderson and clocked him square on the jaw, sending him sprawling to the pavement. And, while all mouths were agape, only Sherlock’s spoke.

He held his wrists out toward a shocked Lestrade. “I’ve just assaulted an officer. Please arrest me.”

And when Greg got his wits about him once again, he did just that. “Sorry, John… he left my little choice. My hands are tied. I have to—”

“No, it’s fine. When that man sets his mind to something… well… I know better than anyone. I’ll be along in the morning to sort things out. Just… keep him safe, will you? He’s made a lot of enemies, and I’d never forgive myself if—”

“He’ll be fine.” Greg clapped a reassuring hand on John’s shoulder. “I’ll see to it myself.”

And with a nod and a twisting in the pit of his gut, John went home… alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least you'll get the resolution today! ;)


	24. Making Up Afterwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmhmm...

When John awoke the next morning, he had forgotten how empty a flat could feel and how cold a bed could be. It felt like those days before he knew Sherlock all over again. Worse yet, it felt just like all the nights he lay awake, thinking of that brilliant name carved into a polished stone and how it would be the only place he might ever visit his best friend again. He thought of all the things he’d left unsaid and how he swore he’d never leave Sherlock’s side again if only he would come back, if only he would be alive. And now he’d sent him away, allowed him to toil in a holding cell all night, a night he’d never get back. They lived dangerous lives—the sort where tomorrow is never promised –yet he’d willingly given up a night in Sherlock’s arms over… over— _No. NO! He deserved it this time._

John tried to remember, tried to hold on to that anger as he stared out the window of the cab on his way to the Yard. And he walked in to find an exhausted Greg staring blankly across a desk. “Where is he?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” Greg blinked slowly and jerked his head in the direction of the holding cells.

“Sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine. So is he, for the record… well… mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“He’s not spoken a word since I brought him in, not even to me. I tried, but he won’t even look at me.”

“I’m sure he’s just being—”

“Holding cell three.” Lestrade looked genuinely concerned. “Just go see for yourself, yeah?”

And even if it was only a few meters between Greg’s desk and Sherlock’s cell, John sprinted. “Sherlock?” John called down the hallway. “Sherl—” The word caught in his throat when he saw how small of a ball his long, lean love had become, huddled in a corner on a flimsy mattress. His knees were hugged to his chest, his face turned toward the wall, and an iron fist gripped John Watson’s heart and squeezed. “Open it!” he shouted to a nearby guard and pounded at the bars of Sherlock’s cell. “Open the bloody cell!”

The guard looked to Lestrade who nodded his approval and did as John asked—or, rather, demanded. “I’ve got to lock it behind you—”

Sherlock remained still through the commotion, and John shuddered at the lack of movement. “I don’t care. Just let me in.”

Even once inside, Sherlock didn’t react to John’s presence. When John sat on the bed, Sherlock didn’t turn to him or even look his way. But once John’s arms were wrapped around the sullen detective’s body, he crumpled and melted into John’s touch.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Sherlock repeated it over and over, his warm breath blanketing the crook of John’s neck.

John tried to pull back but Sherlock held tighter. “What’s gotten in to you?”

“When you didn’t come last night, I thought you never would. I thought I’d eventually get out and find the flat empty. It’s all I could think of. Please don’t leave me, John.”

“I’m not—” John wriggled in Sherlock’s grip and finally put a bit of distance between them. “I’m not leaving you. I was just upset, Sherlock. Jesus. You can’t say things like what you said and expect me to not be hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to insult your friends. I just don’t see you like that. You were never—”

“Stop.” John took Sherlock’s hands into his own, caught and held his gaze. “It wasn’t about your insulting my friends. I mean, it was a bit… but… maybe you don’t realize how much I was him.”

“You weren’t, though. You—”

“Just because you never saw it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Maybe you don’t realize how many moments of intense longing I shared with my service revolver. How many times I rolled a bullet between my fingers and thought, ‘Yeah, this is the one. This is the night.’ How frequent the nightmares used to come and how little comfort I found waking up alone. For a long while, I was never more than a heartbeat away from being a ‘fatal gunshot wound, self-inflicted’ corpse.”

“But you… you never seemed suicidal. I’d have noticed. That’s what I do.”

“Sherlock, I—” John squirmed and struggled with his next sentence, because it was a hard thing to tell someone. It would be the most difficult admission of his life. And just realizing the words in his head were true, that they could be said and needed to be said, was very big, very scary thought. “I didn’t stop feeling that way until I met you. I’ve not thought about that ending my life a single day since I’ve been with you, and I’ve rarely gone a night without you that I haven’t at least considered it. You’ve never seen it, because the condition only exists when I’m away from you. You’re my cure. You saved me… from myself. And that man, the dead man from last night, he didn’t sound like someone you thought would be worth saving. So, what’s that say about me? Do you regret— I mean, do you think the world would be better off—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sherlock got to his knees and gathered John in his arms. “I wouldn’t be better off, not by a long shot. Think of the things I’d never have gotten to do with you… like—” He placed pressed a kiss to John’s lips. “—and—” Long, thin fingers smoothed down John’s chest. “—or tell you I love you. I’d never have gotten to… well—” A warm palm rubbed at the front of John’s trousers. “—or—” Another gripped John’s arse. “—and that would be quite a tragedy,” Sherlock whispered against another kiss as John gasped into his mouth.

“Sherlock, we can’t… not here.”

“But I missed you last night. Please. Didn’t you miss me?”

And John had— _oh, dear lord_ –he really, _really_ had. “Of course, but—” A cursory look around showed signs of absolutely no one. “—oh, fuck it. Turn around.”

With hesitation, Sherlock did as he was told. Two pairs of hands fumbled on two sets of buttons and zips. Twenty fingers worked furiously to reach the same eventual goal. When two of those fingers were pressing into Sherlock’s mouth, he sucked. When they disappeared under the back of his waistband, found their target, and slipped inside, he groaned. And when they flicked across his prostate, he moaned like a fucking whore—which, unsurprisingly, was the same moment that John almost had a spontaneous orgasm.

So, with one set of fingers buried to the knuckles in the tight heat of Sherlock’s arse, John wrapped the free set around his own cock and squeezed hard enough it nearly hurt. But it was worth it, because he couldn’t cum… not like that, not considering the glory that awaited him if only he could wait—no matter how hard waiting was.

With few options at his disposal and a very impatient prick, John spat into his hand and slicked himself. And he wouldn’t be able to tell you what happened next, how Sherlock’s trousers and pants got tugged below his arse, how or when his own fingers were extracted. No, the only thing he would remember was the feeling of Sherlock sinking onto his cock and how, in a holding cell at New Scotland Yard, he finally felt whole and home again.

They writhed and sweated and panted and keened at one another’s touch, and it wouldn’t last long, but it didn’t have to. Because it was time enough for things to be said and done and felt.

“Please, John, don’t leave me. Don’t take this from me. You aren’t the only one who was saved.”

“When you left me, I was in a worse state than I was when you first found me. If life before you nearly killed me, life after you—life _without_ you –certainly would have killed me.”

“I’m a better man for having met you, a better person for having known you, more human for having loved you.”

Of course, some of those words were panted out in staccato… at best. Most of them were sent via some form of telepathy—the kind shared only by the residents of 221B. But the important part was that the messages were conveyed, and they each seemed to hear them loud and clear.

Then, John’s hand—the one shoved into Sherlock pants and stroking furiously, the one which had been moving upon its own ‘this is simply what I do’ volition –wriggled both fist and cock free from their cotton confinement. But John provided only the necessary friction while Sherlock desperately fucked himself up and into it. He gripped Sherlock’s hip and held on tight as a hot stream of ejaculate fell across his fingers and the form in his lap went rigid, save for muscles clenching tighter around his own prick. And the noise that came from Sherlock’s throat—a strangled cry that died in a sob –was worrisome, at least when taken out of context. Of course, he only realized it was worrisome when about five officers—yes, Lestrade included –came running. But there John and Sherlock sat, decided not dying but instead fucking like randy teenagers, and the idea of the Met watching pushed John over the edge, too. After all, how does one find out he’s a bit of an exhibitionist if not by accidentally being watched?

And that day was important. It was the day several Yarders learned that John Watson was a screamer. It was also the day Lestrade paid both Sherlock and John back by saying he understood since he had a screamer—one he couldn’t keep his hands off of either –back at home. Then came the disapproving look on Anderson’s face—the one which made John wish he had been the one who had punched him. But John instead wiped his hand down Anderson’s shirt, commented on the purple bruise on his face, and informed him that holding cell three was in _desperate_ need of a clean-up. And, to top off the day that would be memorable in so very many ways, it was the day that John left Sherlock in the cell for just a little while longer but assured him his mum would be along shortly to get him out and bring him home.

Yes, Sherlock was sorry. And, sure, John loved him. But lessons must be learned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because that's precisely how it went.
> 
> (I've already written over 3000 words today... I can't guarantee the quality of the above piece or anything that follows it.)


	25. Gazing Into Each Others' Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How could you resist gazing into Sherlock's eyes?

Pale blue eyes gazed deeply into a pair more ethereal and crystalline. John focused on the cosmos contained within, the infinite expanse of time and space swirling behind those remarkable orbs. They were windows into such brilliance, such intellectual perfection. And how did those eyes ever flick over John Watson and say, ‘I choose him’?

A socked foot dragged slowly along an inner thigh, a silent token of the Army doctor’s appreciation. An unspoken ‘I love you—oh, god –I hope you know how much I love you.’ Those eyes stared back—intense and full of purpose – and they possessed all the subtly that their owner didn’t. A tiny blip of a speck above the pupil of the right—a blemish not seen in its left counterpart –was something akin to fascinating. John could have wandered—lost –in them forever.

But then something strange happened, something unusual, something miraculous—Sherlock blinked! And John snapped from his daze, leapt to his feet, and shouted a triumphant, “I WON!” Because John didn’t often win when it came to Sherlock, but in the case of The Staring Contest to End All Staring Contests, John Watson reigned supreme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moreover, how could you resist gloating when you beat him at something? :P


	26. Getting Married

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I failed the 30 Day Challenge... but I won NaNoWriMo... and I *will* finish this fic!

The boys of 221B Baker Street stood face to face and tuxedo clad—yes, _those_ tuxedos… grow up, will you? Now where was I? Oh, right.

The boys of 221B Baker Street stood face to face and tuxedo clad. Their friends—I say _friends_ … John would call them friends. Sherlock… well… he actually might call them friends these days, too –and family filled meticulously placed chairs, white ones, of the wooden and folding variety. A short trail of people fell in line behind the grooms—Lestrade, Molly, and Harry on John’s side and Mycroft, Irene, and Clara on Sherlock’s. Yes, Irene had found her way back to the land of the living, much like the man she was standing up for. And Clara… well… she and Harry worked things out. Harry saw what losing Sherlock did her to brother, set her priorities straight, quit drinking, and begged Clara to take her back. Clara was about as likely to say no as John was to turn Sherlock away after his ‘resurrection.’

As the soft piano music died out, John took a deep breath. The scent of fresh wild flowers assaulted him, though pleasantly, and he smiled back at Molly. After all, they were her idea.  And the officiant spoke—or, rather, John assumed she spoke. He was too busy staring at Sherlock to listen. It was hard to believe they’d gone from ‘We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name.’ to ‘I, John, take you, Sherlock.’ in such a short (read: it didn’t feel so short) time. How and when had his life become this… this… _thing?_ _This ridiculous, messy, insane, brilliant, beautiful thing?_ Ah, that awkward moment in which your life and the man you’re marrying could be described in exactly the same words. But it was fitting. Sherlock _was_ his life and had been since the moment they met, and after today, they’d have forever— _forever_ … that word rattled around in John’s head.

Lost in thought of past and future, a sharp elbow to the ribs brought John back ‘round to present. And— _oh, god_ –what a gift it was. There were words that snaked through his auditory canal and bounced off his brain—‘vows you’ve prepared’ –but he couldn’t process them. Then he felt the steadying hand of his love, his life, his Sherlock, and it was warm against his own.

And _his Sherlock_ —John’s inner voice had become very possessive, as if it was afraid someone would swoop in and snatch happiness from its clutches at the very last moment –Yes, his Sherlock spoke in a very quiet baritone. “Your vows, darling.”

“Ah, vows.” John shook his head and fumbled in his jacket’s breast pocket. He retrieved a piece of paper, unfolded it, and tried to read through already misty vision. “Sherl-lock—” _Aw, bloody hell._ His voice was already fucking cracking. That didn’t bode well. “I’m in a bit of a unique position, which is to say that I can’t stand up here and claim to be unable to imagine my life without you. I don’t have to imagine it or even be particularly clever, which is lucky for me, because that’s your job.” And, if John had been looking up, he’d have seen Sherlock grin. “You once asked what I’d say in my last few moment, and I replied without pause, ‘Please, God, let me live.’ Because I’d been there, dying—as best I could tell on a battlefield –and that’s precisely what I said. Then I came home and met you, and everything changed. I remembered how living felt and couldn’t get enough of it… until you left. And without you, my ‘please, God, let me live’ quickly turned to ‘please, God, let me die’ and ‘why him instead of me?’ and ‘goddammit, Sherlock, I needed you.’ Living without you… well… it hurt worse than getting shot. I’d have taken a bullet anywhere to bring you back. And when you did come back—fuck –I didn’t know how to work through what I felt.” No, kids, you shouldn’t say things like ‘goddammit’ and ‘fuck’ in your wedding vows, but in that moment, John Watson was a honey badger… in a tux. “See, the thing is this: I didn’t realize I’d fallen for you until you fe—” That steadying hand returned, and John cleared his throat. “—until you fell… for me. And when I met your mum at your funeral and saw the tears in her eyes, I wished more than anything I could have met her under different circumstances, that her tears could have been tears of joy. And now… here she is, and they are. Here _you_ are. Here **_we_** are. I’m the luckiest man alive, and I will never say goodbye to you or let go of you again, not for as long as I live.” And it didn’t matter that John was crying, because everyone was crying. If John could have seen anything through his tears, he’d have known that even Sherlock’s eyes had gone glassy with emotion.

Sherlock’s breath was shaky, his voice trembling, but still he began to speak. “Oh, John— _my John_ –where do I even begin? You represent everything I thought I’d never have, a life I could only watch others live. Who could ever love a Holmes? A personality only a mother could love, and I imagine even she struggled at times.” From the front row, she shook her head, but only John noticed—and only out of the corner of his eye. “But here you are, my beautiful soldier. You always have been and continue to be the heart to my mind, the man to my machine. You’ve been the conscience that guided me, my light in the dark, the beacon that carried me home. You, John Watson, are a remarkable man capable of doing things few others ever could and no one else would ever bother trying. You love me, and I’m eternally grateful. Even when I forget to say it, forget you may need to hear it, please know that I love you, too.”

And after the ‘I do’s, they skipped right over the ‘honour and obey’ and ‘til death’ bits… because neither would and it had already come to pass. No, they moved directly to the exchange of rings, the first kiss, the cutting of a cake, the Sherlock-taught-me-how-to-foxtrot, and then to their room. Because public declarations be damned, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes expressed their love best when they were alone in a bed, speaking only one another's names intermixed with something a bit less coherent than their vows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long. I was scared of fucking it up. *shrugs* Maybe I still did.


	27. On One of Their Birthdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these are taking so long to go up... I got a bit burnt out in November.

There are days when the alarm clock doesn’t go off. You wake up late with a splitting headache, and you simply just curse the sun and roll out of bed anyway. Well, that was precisely the kind of day John was having. Except, it didn’t stop there. No. That would be far too kind.

The text waiting on his mobile when he awoke was from Sherlock, who desperately needed his company on a case. His knee was acting up. Not a single cabbie in London seemed to be able to see him haling. And, when he finally got to the crime scene, it was cold and muddy and what must have been a million kilometers from the nearest paved road. But wait… there’s more!

By the time he arrived to the crime scene, they were already done. So he got to do little more than stand around for several seconds, huff in annoyed frustration, and walk alongside Sherlock all the way back to where he’d only just come from. Several members of the Met had tried to speak to him, but he just pinched the bridge of his nose and waved them away.

And then… OH! THEN! His bloody fucking phone wouldn’t stop going off. Calls were coming in like you wouldn’t believe—calls from people who never bothered with him. Harry, Mycroft, Stamford, Irene, Molly, Mrs. Hudson... He ignored the first five on purpose and accidentally ignored the sixth when he tried to answer. He cursed that too.

When they stopped at Angelo’s for a quick bite, they got his food wrong. You know, the place that has _never_ —not in the billion times he’d eaten there since moving into 221B –gotten his order wrong? Yeah, _they_ got it wrong. Not only did they get it wrong, but they managed to get it wrong in such a way that… well… John didn’t even _know_ he had any food allergies—not before his face went lobster red and started to itch like some sort of mosquito bite from the fiery depths of hell. So, instead of going straight home, they soon found themselves at St. Bart’s instead. Sure, all was back to normal fifteen minutes after his epinephrine shot… but it didn’t really do much for making him feel better about the day so far.

Also, just because I stopped talking about how often his phone was going off, don’t think for a second that meant it had actually slowed or stopped. Because it hadn’t. Though John couldn’t tell you who was trying to contact him, as he’d stopped bothering to even look at the caller ID about halfway through the day. He’d stopped taking the time to ignore the calls or give a sideways glance at the texts. What he’d done was put the obnoxious little fucker on silent and forgotten it even existed.

Eventually, they arrived back at their flat. It was dark and they were both soaked through with rain—which seemed terribly unnecessary –but at least they were finally home. Did I mention John had a headache? Because he still did. _Oh, god! Why won’t it just go away?_ And he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and die—okay, okay… sleeping for twelve hours would suffice.

But Sherlock was having none of it. “John? Can’t you just… John? Are you listening to me?”

“Mm.” John said to mean yes, by which I mean he fucking flat-out lied. He wasn’t listening, not even sort of.

“John, can you make some tea before you go to bed?”

And that was it. It was simultaneously enough and too much. “Sherlock! Christ! Can’t you see I’m having what is quite possibly the worst day of my entire life? Do you know how serious that is coming from a man who was both shot in battle and forced to watch his best friend nosedive off a hospital? Have you any idea just how unfortunate today has been for me?”

“Well, yes…” Sherlock looked at him with the biggest, saddest eyes a human being can conjure and fucking whimpered. “But… my tea.”

So, John Watson—with the patience of a goddamn saint –just sighed. He mentally ran through all the ways in which he was always the one who cared more, loved deeper, and sacrificed himself for others. He threw himself a good old fashioned pity party right inside his head. Everyone was there— misery, pity, self-loathing. They drank tea, ate biscuits, and cried together. It was a lovely little affair, if not a bit somber. And when he was done with his pity party, he turned toward the kitchen with every intention of making the tea. Because why the fuck not?

Then he stopped. Only a few steps from the threshold, John just stopped. He looked at the counter and then at Sherlock, who simply grinned an innocent, childish grin. His face was full of hope and expectation and dear-god-please-tell-me-you-understand-and-aren’t-really-angry, and John did understand. He understood, and he wasn’t even in the same postcode as angry anymore.

On the counter was a cupcake with a single candle sticking up from its center, a long-stem red rose, and a note penned in Sherlock’s enviously beautiful handwriting:

_To John-_

_May today bring you even one-tenth of the joy I receive from simply having you in my life. Thank you so much for choosing me. Happy Birthday, darling!_

_Your Loving Husband,  
Sherlock XOXO_

And _fuck_ if it wasn’t just about the best way to end the worst day ever. Because… well… here’s the thing: John had forgotten it was his birthday. Yes, completely and utterly forgotten, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he did.

“I suspected as much. I thought you’d find it this morning before you met me at the crime scene, but then you never mentioned it. And you ignored all calls. And I didn’t know what—”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side. He looked perplex, even a bit hurt. It was clear he didn’t know what he’d done wrong—or, rather, he didn’t realize he’d done everything exactly right. At least, he didn’t realize until John kissed him.

And while a cupcake, a rose, and a handwritten note are _just about_ the best way to end the worst day ever, three orgasms, a forgotten headache, and falling asleep still tangled with the love of your life is the absolute best—at least, that’s what John would tell you if you asked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like banging out a 1000-ish word chapter in 30 min @ 3am and posting it without bothering to re-read it. Sorry if it's rife with mistakes... un-beta'd is an understatement.


	28. Doing Something Ridiculous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is sort of ridiculous...

When ordinary people make life changing decision, they discuss and plan and plot and debate. They talk issues into the ground. Not a single rock goes unturned, a single dark corner unexplored. But that’s what ordinary people do.

Sherlock and John aren’t ordinary. They make life altering decision— _life and death decision_ –with little more than a shared glance. They know each other, read each other, sense one another’s thoughts and feelings. So, even when they make extraordinarily scary choices—hugely life changing decisions –the necessity of discussion is still fairly minimal, though not all together absent.

The inherent problem with this scenario is that they are both innately brilliant men, and innately brilliant men will often assume that their shared brilliance means they use the same or similar reasoning and therefore come to the same conclusions. And that’s generally true… _generally_. But sometimes—and certainly not often, not often at all –that assumption is so very wrong. This, kids… _this_ is one such occasion.

With the contract laid out in front of them, they looked between one another, each waiting for the other to lift the pen and enter his name on the blank. But no one budged. Sherlock thought John was getting cold feet, because even after so long, he sometimes underestimated his husband. And John thought Sherlock was being stubborn, like when he argued that he shouldn’t have to sign their wedding certificate to make their marriage legal. He hated bureaucracy and often chose the most inappropriate and frustrating times to voice his distaste for it.

“You realize you’ll have to do it the old fashioned way if you don’t sign this, right?” John smirked.

Sherlock’s brows crumpled into one another. “If _I_ don’t sign? _You’re_ the one we’re waiting on.”

“Waiting on me to do what?”

“To… to sign the bloody papers!”

“No, but… I… wait… what?”

Ah, there it is. That awkward moment when two of the most intelligent people in the room realize they’re both bloody well wrong. Luckily, no one else spoke, which was good since neither Sherlock nor John even remembered anyone else was in the room.

John shoved away the pen that Sherlock held out toward him. “Why would I sign, Sherlock? You do realize what these papers say, right?”

“Obviously. Do you think… I mean… you thought _I_ —”

“Yes! Of course I thought you would be the one. Look at you!”

And Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John’s chair, took John’s face between his palms, and he just nearly wept. You probably don’t believe me, and who could blame you? But I wouldn’t lie about this. No, tears filled his eyes, threatened to fall, and there are witnesses who can confirm it. “But you’re so much that I’m not. You’re the one thing that keeps me sane, keeps me alive, keeps me human. You’re the riddle that remains interesting enough to hold my attention for the rest of my life. Why would I ever want it to be me instead of you?”

“Stop.” John just sort of rolled his eyes, a bit misty but filled mostly with disbelief. “You’re being ridiculous. Between us, you got the lion’s share of both looks and intellect. Everything I have to offer can be taught, not a single ounce of it is inborn.” John’s voice cracked, because that’s what it does when he’s so openly, so brazenly laying out all of his own flaws and insecurities. “It only makes sense for you—”

“When will you finally start to see yourself the way I see you? Your hair, your eyes—my god – _your heart_. What part of your biology is anything less than desirable? I’m the one who is intrinsically flawed. Look at me and my brother. Why would I ever wish my… my…”

“Holmesian charms?” John offered.

“Mm…” Sherlock’s eyes darted toward the floor. It sounded like the kindest way of saying insanity. “Why would I wish it on another living creature?”

“Because you represent the best we have to offer. There was a time you would gladly have told me why you were superior in every way—”

“And there was a time when I’d never have wanted this at all. I would have considered it ridiculous. A man can change, even me.”

“It is ridiculous, isn’t it? I mean… us—” John stopped. It wasn’t a train of thought he wished to continue, not with everything already hanging in the balance. “Perhaps we could both… I mean… then we wouldn’t know whose—”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head and reclaimed his seat. “I’d rather walk away. You don’t understand. No one ever understands.” He sounded like he was speaking more to himself than to anyone else in the room. “Look at her!” Irene cautiously waved, chewing her thumbnail in the corner. “If I were a woman, who else would I be? She’s as much me as we need. I want to know my child is half John Watson, or what’s the point? And maybe it is ridiculous, but I don’t care. Be ridiculous with me, John. Please? ”

As the mist in John’s eyes escalated to a drizzle, he gave a very shallow nod and timidly reached for the pen. With the ballpoint hovering just above the paper, John’s hand trembled. “Are you sure?” he asked in a shaky breath.

And Sherlock moved closer, put his own hand on John’s wrist. He leaned close to John’s ear, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. And I know you fear you’re taking something from me, but you aren’t. I’ve already spoken to Harry, and—this is all with Clara’s permission, of course –our second will most certainly be mine.”

Eventually, John signed the papers, and several very long weeks later, Irene was refusing champagne. “So, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, fathers-to-be,” she said, smiling a congratulatory smile as they placed their hands on her lower abdomen. It was going to be a very long nine months, and 221B would never, _ever_ be the same again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how long I've wanted to write this fucking chapter??? DO YOU?!?! Guh!


	29. Doing Something Sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: You might get cavities.

Who would ever have known the grip that one tiny fist can have on the heart of a full grown man? Not John and certainly not Sherlock. Hamish Watson-Holmes came screaming into the world at 2:21pm, and at a meager 6lb 8oz, no one could have guessed his size from his lung capacity. It would take his brilliant fathers four weeks, two days, and roughly three-and-a-half hours of sleep deprived domestic, parental bliss to realize the connection between the time of their son’s birth and the address of their flat, and—as you may well have worked out for yourself –that meant they were exceptionally off their game.

“Did you know babies kept such irrational schedules?” Sherlock asked John through half-lidded eyes.

And John managed a laugh—half amusement, half sleep deprivation-induced hysteria. “Yeah, I must say I did.”

“Why? Why won’t he just… just… sleep?”

Another chuckle from the Army doctor. “Because he’s a baby, Sherlock. He needs to eat every couple of hours. He needs changed regularly.”

Sherlock’s head dropped quickly when he dozed off and his chin slipped off its resting place on his fist. “I didn’t used to sleep, John. I don’t understand. I thought I was made for this.”

“You are, love.” John carried a very happy, very not-even-kind-of-asleep Hamish over and laid him in Sherlock’s arms. “You can’t tell me that doesn’t feel… right.”

“He has your eyes, John. I hoped he’d have your eyes.”

“And he somehow has your… well… everything else.” John smiled down at the dark curls and pale skin that surrounded the Watson family eyes. “He’s—”

“Beautiful.”

“I was going to say ‘ours,’ but beautiful works.”

“He’s both.” Sherlock nuzzled his nose against John’s cheek and pressed his lips to the corner of his husband’s mouth. “What’s he need right now?”

“I think it’s possible he just wants a cuddle.” John reached out. “You’re welcome to go to bed. I can take him if you wa—”

“No.” Sherlock snugged the baby closer to his chest. “I think I might be rather good at this part.” And he was.

No one is ever prepared to become a parent for the first time. Few understand the gravity of the undertaking, even the most brilliant mind the world has ever known can’t properly deduce the magnitude of fatherhood until it’s experienced first-hand. It was a big, scary, unpredictable adventure—perhaps more so than any other Sherlock or John had been through before, together or separately. But the difference was elementary—no matter how hard it got or how tired they were, this adventure was always going to be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you vomiting rainbows yet?


	30. Doing Something Hot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm... and hot, it is!

Sometimes a situation gets hot—excruciatingly, ridiculously hot. We’re talking _holy fuck! my head may explode_ kinds of hot, _I don’t know if that’s sweat or tears_ kinds of hot. Sometimes things get so hot that the screaming alone could wake half of bloody London, and it’s _so fucking goddamn hot_ that no one involved could care less if he tried.

Well… at 35°C, with an unhappy baby and a busted air conditioner, that’s exactly the kind of hot one tends to experience. And after a very long, very sleepless, very miserable night, when the sun’s just starting to rise and the only adults in the room are both considering bashing their heads against a wall until they go unconscious, the most welcome noise on planet earth is a dilapidated rattle of decrepit machinery. Especially so when that sound is followed by a blast of cool air, which is followed shortly by the silence of an infant and then by the snoring of his fathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? You were expecting sex? Silly readers! :P


	31. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, I guess. It feels very strange to be done...

It would be nearly four years before John and Sherlock would again speak of the promise Sherlock made the day the papers were signed for John to take on the duty of becoming Hamish’s biological father. It was a promise John wouldn’t soon let Sherlock forget, because the child of Sherlock Holmes would be quite a thing to behold. And when they nervously approached Harry and Clara about it once again, their fears of seconds thoughts and rejection were quickly dispelled. With two girls of their own already—which either of them would happily tell you was plenty –Harry was all too happy to help her brother know the equal parts joy and pain of raising two very small children simultaneously.

The road wasn’t quite as easy as it had been with Hamish, but there was relatively little to complain about. Only fourteen months stood between their conversation and the day John and Sherlock first held their daughter in their arms. And never, save for Hamish, had such a beautiful child been brought into the world.

“What’s her name, father?” Hamish asked, looking warily at his new, sleeping baby sister.

“Her name is Harriet Adelaide—after your aunts –but we’re going to call her Adele,” Sherlock replied.

Hamish looked crossways at John. “Daddy, Father’s not making any sense. I don’t have an Aunt Adelaide or an Aunt Adele.”

And John just laughed. “No, Hamish, you don’t. Sometimes I think you’re too smart for your own good. Do you remember your Aunt Irene’s surname?”

“Adler!” Hamish answered, smiling brightly.

“Very good!” Sherlock grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Well, your Aunt Irene _Adler_ was very touched that we wanted to name your sister after her, but she doesn’t like her first name very much at all. So, she insisted we find another way to pay her homage.”

John sighed at his husband before turning his attention to their son. “Homage means—”

“I know what homage means, Daddy. You do realize I’m five years old now, don’t you?”

“How—” John pinched the bridge of his nose and glared at Sherlock. “How is he so very much yours and so very little mine sometimes?”

“Imagine if I’d signed those papers instead of you.” Sherlock winked.

“Yours? What’s he talking about, Father?”

“Nothing, Hamish. Daddy’s just being silly, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Daddy’s just being very silly. Now, go get cleaned up for dinner. Your cousins are coming over tonight.”

And soon Harry and Clara showed up with Charlotte and Jessica in tow, who were both fascinated with baby Adele. Mycroft and Greg were late, as per usual, which they tried to blame on Lucy—but she was quick to explain that one of her fathers spent an hour trying to choose a suit, and when he was finally ready, the other couldn’t find his keys. She couldn’t have been any less interested in the other children if she'd tried. She just wasn’t the type. Still, they eventually convinced her to at least stand watch and make certain none of the little ones were maimed or killed in any of the rather unique ways Holmes and Watson children liked to play. Before the night was through, she’d tried to blackmail Hamish, and Sherlock couldn’t have been prouder to find out that his son didn’t negotiate with terrorists.

Dinner had already been over an hour when Irene called to make her excuses. She was never going to be the family type, and John and Sherlock never forced her. She knew she was welcome, and they were grateful for what she’d given them. If she chose to only show up a few times a year—Christmas, birthday, etc – it was her choice. She seemed happy enough, still traveling the world and risking her life every chance she got.

As for everyone else, they sat quietly, drank somewhat less than liberally, and talked of things they never expected they’d talk about. Not once was there any mention of dead bodies, blood spatter, discharged weapons, or extortion. How times had changed.

Monday morning, of course, Sherlock and John would be back to work—saving the world whilst somehow still raising their children. But Sunday nights… Sunday nights were about family, and so they would remain for the rest of their days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I can't tell you what it means to me that you've followed my boys from the very beginning. I'm going to miss this Sherlock and John, but I'm sure some plot bunny will bring me another Sherlock and John along shortly. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I love feedback, so please don't hesitate to tell me what you thought. <333

**Author's Note:**

> Successive fics will likely be much longer than this, but a brief spark of a moment is just how some of the very best things begin!
> 
> I always welcome comments! :) If I fall behind, feel free to harass me on Tumblr at: http://megg33k.tumblr.com


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